The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue xxx Part II
by sympathex
Summary: Continuation of Part I: Captain Will Turner is hunting a mysterious phantom known as the Ghost Raider while his wife Elizabeth stays behind at Shipwreck City to care for an injured Jack Sparrow. WxE, JxE. See inside for summary of Part I.
1. Author's Note

_With chapter 12, the first part of our story ended, so we decided to provide our readers (and those who might choose to start reading from chapter 13) with a summary of chapters 1 to 12. It says everything you need to know about Part I to follow the story from chapter 13._

A link to Part I in its entire length can be found at my story list.

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_Part II is dedicated to all our readers, here and elsewhere. We greatly appreciate your support, feedback and concrit :)_

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**10 years and several months after the battle at World's End ...**

The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue is an impassable strait off the islands of the Caribbean, haunted by a mysterious phantom known only as: The Ghost Raider. The Raider's activities have caused the EITC to double its presence in the Caribbean waters and piracy is at stake once more. With the desire to protect his family and the pirate livelihood, Will Turner, former Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, chooses to hunt down the Raider and put a stop to his activities. Despite Captain Teague's apparent dislike of his person, and the ghostly folklore surrounding the Raider, Will leaves Shipwreck Cove on Teague's ship, the _Captive Swallow_. Elizabeth remains at Shipwreck City to tend to her store and her rambuncous ten year old son, William, but the uneasy peace of the Cove is soon disturbed by a mysterious visitor leading young Will to an injured body. Captain Jack Sparrow has finally returned – with a bullet in his chest.

Though the bullet is successfully removed, Jack's life hangs on a delicate balance between life and death, beneath Elizabeth's watchful gaze. At Jack's bedside, Captain Teague reveals a little of his mysterious past; the story of how he met the daughter of a Marques who later became Jack's mother. While Jack fights the perilious waters of recovery, Will sails into the Cape of the Sinner's Tongue, almost loses a man and is reuinted with his father, who has succeeded him as Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_. The reunion is shortlived after Bootstrap Bill insinuates that he may know the Raider's identity. Bound by a mysterious promise, he can only reveal that his son ought to begin his search in a well known port—Tortuga.


	2. Chapter 13

His quill scratched languidly across parchment, uneasy swirls and flourishes meant to pass for mediocre penmanship. His mind wasn't with his work; it was with the gulls, soaring high above the ramshackle towering ships, past the protective cove and out into the beckoning arms of the sea. Of its own accord, his hand began to sketch other symbols, deviations from the scattered algebraic equations; a treasure chest, thrown open at the hinges spilled gold coins across his page. Jewels of every variety and an elaborate crown, once belonging to the King of the Danes, William decided, sat atop the pile like a gleaming beacon.

"And so if we carry the two, we'll find that two thousand five hundred and thirteen is the square of nine hundred and twenty four. How does that apply to the Pythagorean theorem…" Will's ears drifted away from the lesson, from the monotone voice of Master Pinch, their erudite school master who never turned round to face his students. They suspected that he might be as enamored with the chalk-board as he was with the sound of his own voice.

What, he wondered, was the purpose of learning the dimensions of squares, triangles, and, yes the latest figure on the board was a trapezoid, when pirates had no need of that knowledge? A pirate need only know how to read charts, which William had mastered at the age of five, a steady hand with a blade, which he'd still yet to conquer, and a strong stomach for rum, another skill he had yet to claim for his own. He felt his desk-companion, the eldest boy in the school room, known to him for his repulsive stench of body odor and the name Charlie, nudge him with such force to his ribs that it made Will's hand skip across the page.

"What'd you do that for?" He massaged his throbbing ribs judiciously and fixed Charlie with an icy stare. Grinning like an idiot, Charlie leaned over to whisper in Will's ear.

"Come off it, you know what for." The elbow nudged again, this time more emphatically, with the pointed tip.

"No, I'm not going to do it. It's degrading. Why should I be the one to do it?" William complained out of the corner of his mouth, scribbling furiously as he shaded the treasure chest. Charlie heaved a tremendous sigh.

"Because you were the one that came up with it, didn't you? And besides, you're the smallest of all of us--don't have as far to fall to the floor. We've rehearsed it all week, you can't squawk now. What'll I tell the other lads? They were looking for a bit of sport. Besides, you know Pinch deserves it. He's been eyeing us for weeks."

At the sound of his name, the School Master turned abruptly away from the board. William put his head into his hand—now Charlie had done it! He hadn't troubled to keep his voice down and Pinch was on the alert that they had something up their sleeves. Will shuffled his sheets of parchment and innocently scratched sporadically chosen numbers from the board.

"Master Turner." Automatically, William rose from his seat, a gesture of protocol and decorum. He inclined his head in a bow, another gesticulation of etiquette, before Pinch addressed him with bristling irritation.

"Come to the board." William did as he was commanded, feeling a sense of trepidation as several of his classmates had the gall to snicker, relieved that it had been he chosen to be the sacrificial lamb.

"Since you feel compelled to chatter incessantly during the lesson, I thought it best that you teach the rest of the math lesson. You know all there is about the trapezoid, do you not?" He stared at his feet, unable to meet the glare of Pinch's spectacles in the light that streamed into the classroom. His cheeks were burning as with great defeat, he shook his head, indicating that he had no desire to teach the lesson.

"I can't, sir. I don't know how." He murmured, hardly above a whisper. This elicited a great flutter of giggles from the other boys and a smile of cruel triumph from Pinch's lips.

"Take a seat, Master Turner. The next time you squander our class time, I'll make no bones about speaking with your mother." There was a great hush over the classroom, and each pirate lad straightened in their seats, all of them imagining what their mothers might have to say about their behavior with one gigantic gulp.

They watched and they waited; Pinch's paranoia urged him to peer over his shoulder, ripping it around with a protesting crack of his spine every two minutes. In the course of his short employment at Shipwreck Cove, he'd been the victim of nine childish pranks, two per week since his inception at the school. Parchment balls, a wide assortment of exotic creatures in the compartments of his desk—he'd learned to expect any and all methods of attack.

It happened quickly; a flourish of whispers engaged in serious debate, the tumble of neatly stacked texts to the floor, a shove of scattered parchment to the floor, a rise of temper.

"I'll not listen to another word you say. I'm tired of it," Will bellowed at the top of his lungs, rising from his chair red in the face, trembling with outrage. Charlie stared up at him, his face nearly purple in his temper. They'd been quarrelling all week, a brawl in the school yard, an open fisted slap the previous day, all to avenge the honor that each boy had taken from the other.

"You say that because you can't accept the truth!" Charlie returned ferociously, digging his hand into his pocket. He'd had enough; William's addle minded stupidity had enraged him to the point of poor judgment. He withdrew his sharp blade, the knife he was never without, not even on Sundays. Pinch's voice dropped into silence, a ring of students encircled the two boys, who stood locked in heated stares with one another. William was frightened; he had no weapon of his own, only a quill to defend himself and Charlie was a much larger boy.

"Gentleman, I order you to halt this instant!" Pinch clapped his dandified hands to emphasize his words, though at first sight of the weapon, he made no further move to jump between the two lads. He loathed blood, the roughness required to draw it, the stench of it, and the sight made his stomach churn. One of the lads had split his lip open in a nasty fall from the school house steps. He'd had to order one of the older boys to assist the child because he'd been nearly faint at the drops of scarlet that had tricked down the chin.

"I'm warning you …" The snarled caveat tore from Charlie's throat, and before Will had the chance to react, he leapt upon him with the force of a vicious tiger, tackling him to the ground. The circle of boys drew back, as the pair wrestled in a ring, William being the lighter of the two and wiry had the first advantage. He'd slipped from between Charlie's bicep and chest; with his knee in the larger boy's protruding stomach, gave him a slap across the face. Pinned by the shock of the slap and by Will's weight, Charlie froze for an instant, and the crowd around them drew a collective gasp.

"There, it's finished now. No more." Will wiped a little of the perspiration dripping from his temples with his sleeve and with a push, lifted himself from Charlie's stomach, to the scattered, albeit disappointed applause of their classmates. Being hearty, lads borne with the treacheries of the sea, they'd rather hoped for a smidgen of blood to be spilt, and the knife had appeared to fulfill all their deepest, ferocious desires.

"Cripes," A lad named Horace muttered, snapping his fingers at the cruelty of happiness denied. Will turned his back, dusting his hands as though he'd made a hard days work of a good thrashing with a smirk on his lips. He had their respect; not another lad in the school yard would dare to defy his orders. They'd scattered like hens when he came to tour the--

"Oye, Turner!" Charlie's voice disrupted his mental gloating; Will turned, the sardonic smirk still curling his lips upward when, with all the malevolent power he possessed, Charlie gripped Will's fragile shoulder and stuck him like a pig in the gut with the knife. A short inhalation of breath, both from the boy, who staggered backward, the smile stolen from his face by the tip of the blade through his fragile flesh, and from the group of school boys, who were slowly backing their way toward the school house front door, past their cowering school master, who had curled his long, gangly limbs into his wooden chair, his face buried in his hands, unable to bring himself to watch. One by one, his students filed out the door, their eyes never leaving the horror of the sight.

Charlie pulled the knife from the deep folds of Will's once white tunic; the purity of the snow was soon marred with death, and the blade dripped red. William gasped, caving to the craven need of his knees to collapse to the floor. He dropped with the weight of a stone; a stream of blood parted the dust particles of the floorboards. Master Pinch, frozen into place by the chaos of his classroom retched violently into his embroidered handkerchief. These pirate lads were savages! Left to their own devices they'd tear each other limb from limb, and who knew what viciousness they had in store for him. He ran out into the streets, swallowing a bulge of gorge in his throat as he shouted:

"Murder! There's been a murder in the school house. Have a look for yourselves. Terrible thing to behold. Did everything in my power to stop it…" He trembled, fear and madness blazing in his eyes as his hands gripped the shoulders of the other pirates rambling down the streets, on their way to and from the docks. Disturbed by the lack of order to the school master's ordinarily tidy appearance, the men set aside their tools and packs, bursting with a shuffle of heavy boots into the vacant school room, perplexed to a stop when there was no body of a child to greet them. Master Pinch, who had lingered behind the men, pushed passed them as their howls of laughter echoed in the white washed walls. His spectacles slid to the bridge of his nose, and as he peered around the larger man, he was handed three singular items, left to gape at them in wonder as the pirates each shook their heads at their school master's eccentricities.

In his hand, a tomato, as red as the blood that dripped from the tip of the felt knife, clearly a stage prop when examined at a closer range mocked him along with one final tribute. He tore opened the folded scrap of parchment, his facial muscles twitching with bristling fury at the sight of a crudely drawn caricature. It floated to the ground, a sketch of ink which depicted him curled in his chair in a swoon at the sight of a harmless tomato, which seeped the juice that in his lamentable panic he'd mistaken for blood. As he retrieved the fallen drawing, he crumbled it into a tight ball that he rather wished had doubled for one of his student's necks; he recognized the workmanship of the clever plot.

"Turner," he snarled, shaking his fist at his unseen, ten-year-old opponent. All the lads had taken advantage of his distraction to slip away, calling an early end to the school day. Very well, the day may have been called from session, but Pinch had a new mission that deviated from geometric shapes. The only shape that concerned him was the rectangular sign of _Pillage and Plunder_; laughing to himself with the mania of the insane he knew exactly how to extract his revenge and set off down the street, the tomato clutched in his hand.


	3. Chapter 14

**A/N: **_As always, many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this story so far. We greatly appreciate your kind words and concrit!_

**Chapter 14 **

_To _**gealuv**  
_Her wonderful artwork fuels inspiration for our story._

The autocratic school master had fallen for the ruse and what a sight he had made, wringing his baby soft white hands, beads of panicked perspiration gathering at the receding line of his ginger hair while his starched suit had become wrinkled, aged by the fear of death and blood. Once Pinch realized that he had been had by the whole of the _Shipwreck City Boys Academy_, he'd be too ashamed of his decorum to deal them any real punishment. The plan was fool proof, rehearsed to the letter by the boys in their long afternoon hours after school. They'd not deviated from the charts they'd conspired to make under the covers of their beds after their mothers had tucked them in at night. Of course, there had been some improvisations to suit the moment. His well placed slap across Charlie's cheek had stained it pink with a hand print, startling his friend into a stunned stupor temporarily; the cuff had not been in their agreement, but William felt that it had given their staged scene a touch of authenticity that had been missing in previous drafts.

Popping another celebratory tart sweet into his mouth, he tossed his school books into the corner of the hall, banishing them from his memory, taking the carved wooden stairs of his home at top speed. He required the cutlass that Captain Teague had given to him for his fifth birthday, the hilt of which had rusted without use and his father's spy glass. His treasured possessions, all he had in the world, were shoved into a leather satchel that sat sideways over his shoulder or tucked into the waist band of the belt that was too large for his narrow waist. He'd stolen it from amongst his father's limited wardrobe; he'd lamented its loss, but had never thought to search through his son's cedar chest.

His heart was filled with the wickedness of glee; today marked his first day as a true pirate. Commandeering the school was an act reminiscent of the cunning of Black Beard or the great Captain Morgan, whose great minds were lauded in the local taverns and obsequious histories of piracy. He was ready for his first steps as a buccaneer; only, he lacked the knowledge of what adventure to pursue. He only required a heading; his foot stilled in the hall outside of his room as he pondered what adventure to choose. There was always the legend of the Sultan of Morocco, who had accidentally stumbled upon Shipwreck Cove a century before it had become a pirate safe haven and buried his treasure, it was rumored, in one of the caves that lined the beach. Satisfied with a route that promised of untold riches, a jaunty tune sprang to his lips, but as the shrill whistle blew into the shape of melody, his feet skidded to a halt.

The forbidden door was open; slightly ajar as though it were a crooked finger, beckoning him to enter. He knew he shouldn't; his mother had expressly warned him never to bother the man who was recuperating within the illicit room which had once served as his once guileless nursery. In fact, she'd been quite mute on the subject of their unexpected boarder. His entreaties and peppered questions had fallen on deaf ears; she'd told him nothing save the man's name. It'd been enough, he'd gone into their library and dug through every book about pirates until he'd found the name he was looking for. Captain Jack Sparrow, he'd read, was cunning, treacherous to a fault; his crowning glory was the sack of Nassau Port, achieved, some claimed, without his firing so much as a single shot. His feet led him to the edge of the door a chasm of doubt standing between him and his insatiable appetite for the most lurid tales filled with mystery. Here he was, standing at the threshold of his wildest dreams, but he found he lacked the courage to take the first step. The edges of his finger tips traced the smooth ridges of the grainy wood door, and with little effort, they edged the crack open to the size of a small fissure. His slender frame, gangly and gamey from his aversion to most foods prepared by his mother, slipped easily in the new space the door had created---he was inside. His toes curled with secret delight.

Nell, the effervescent assistant to his mother was meant to be keeping guard over the cave, like a fierce dragon with shining, pearlescent scales; only, as he peered about the room he found it empty, save for a single chair, dissolute bureau and the bed tucked beneath the open window sill. He was in luck! Step by step, he crept toward the slumbering invalid; he'd take a peek at his face to reassure his nerves that the man wasn't dead and then he'd run like the devil was at his heel's from the room.

He was very close; Jack Sparrow drew breath, a rasping sound like wind through a tattered sail. His features were outlined by a dim halo of light, casting his pallid features with a strangely becoming flaxen aura, almost as though his soul were made of gold. The observation fit; according to one of the books he'd read, Jack Sparrow had consented to exchange his spirit to Lucifer to purchase a soul comprised of the purest of ores. William stared at him in silent wonder; he'd never seen another pirate quite like him. Blinking in fascination, his trembling fingers reached out to trace the strange collection of trinkets woven into the thick, coarse strands of hair but thought better of it. Every pirate knew it was bad luck to wake a man while he was sleeping; Will's vision was distracted by the sight of Jack's dangling coat, boots and all manner of effects hanging like a worm on the edge of a fishing hook. He'd been surrounded by pirates all of his life, but he'd never been close enough to a true pirate to ever have access to their effects. A pirate's possessions were always well-guarded secret; items, of which their singular importance was known only to the specific individual, were left unexplained and permanently affixed to their person—effects were never to be touched by an unknown party, as stated by the Code; it was one of the many paradoxical policies pirates abided by under pain of death. Still, the bylines of the Code spoke nothing of rummaging through the effects of an unconscious man.

Skulking across a myriad of creaking floor boards, Will's hands traced the rough texture of Jack Sparrow's sun-bleached long coat. It was not cut in the fashion that had become popular amongst the more fashionable members of Shipwreck City. It'd been patched with large, imprecise stitches more than once, and was threadbare in the shoulders. He stole a look at the bed and held his breath as the coat slipped off the hanger and onto his boney shoulders. Coarse fabric grated across his skin; it hung too long on his small frame, the tails of the coat nearly grazed the floor. Greedily, his hands despoiled a crudely stitched leather hat and before he could stop himself with the common sense that he ought not to touch another man's precious cargo, he placed the hat atop his head at a rakish angle. Too large for his head, the hat slid down precariously until it was slowed by his over large, protruding ears. His coat cuffs hung loosely over his hands and flapped in the speed of the wind created by the eagerness of his movements. He reached next for a strange box, which sat high atop the dresser forlorn in its separation from the other effects.

He traced a finger around the thick black lacquer, and his finger tip flicked the gold clasp until, the hinges which were rusted shut, relented and the box flipped open with a rattle.

"Cor…," he breathed, his eyes drinking the delicately etched angles and curves of what appeared to be an ornate compass. His fingers, curled like the talons of an eagle, swooped down to snatch it off the dresser and with eyes that grew wider as the dial oscillated between the door and the man in the bed. Strange; compasses were meant to be steady; a tool sailor's used along with the proximity of the stars to guide them home. Of course, he'd heard tell of something about Jack Sparrow's compass, though he'd not taken the time to read the snippet in one of the books having considered the information superfluous.

"Oy, you don't want to be doing that, mate." Will snapped the lid guilty with a sharp intake of air. The unexpected voice broke upon the silence of the room like a thunder clap on a peaceful summer day. Quivering like a tree in a storm, Will turned sheepishly to face the owner of the magnificent effects he'd enjoyed only moments before. The man who'd been a figment of his imagination, a fearsome pirate who, rather than succumbing to the malaise of his injuries had fought furious battles in his mind, lay before him, weakened, but no longer on the death's terrifying doorstep. His dark eyes had twittered and twitched in fever bore into him, a puckered frown disrupting his smooth brow as he took in the state of Will's dress. Clearly, he was displeased about the disruption of his effects, but as he was too weak or too polite to usher a sound rebuke.

It had been the familiar click of the lid of his time worn compass that had ushered him out of the burning desert of tragic delirium. The solidness of the sound, the rotating whirl of the dial as it spun indecisively between two points, courses of action in a life left unfinished. He'd grown used to, over time, having crew members steal into his cabin to poke through his effects and it was that same wariness of sleep that had roused him to consciousness, for fear of being stolen blind. Though his eyes were weighted with the same lead that comprised cannon balls, he pried one eye open and then the other, to view the interloper.

"You seem somewhat familiar, have I threatened you before?" Jack inquired with a deep frown as his eyes studied the young boy's face. He knew the features, the row of freckles sprinkled like stars against the night sky, dark circles that hung like half-moons and olive tinted eyes that glinted from beneath a thick fringe nut brown, disorderly hair which obscured the bright intelligence, like that of a gazelle, of the boy's all seeing eyes. He was suspiciously familiar; there was something about every gesture, and Jack found that he could anticipate the boy's movements almost as though he'd transformed from an invalid into a mirror.

"No, you would have remembered," William responded haughtily, annoyed that the pirate who had lain in their house in limbo between life and death would treat him with so little respect. He had heard that all pirates treated one another with a strange sort of dignified respect that this particular pirate had not granted him. Will stared at him evenly, his arms crossed at his chest, studying him. His mother had warned him that the pirate they had found on the beach was not to be trusted, but to his observations, the man he knew as Jack Sparrow seemed innocuous, his sheets pulled up to his chin, cheeks hollow and gaunt from the bouts of fever, despite what the books had said about him.

His companion blinked twice, as though his scanning eyes and ears had finally registered a fellow pirate. Rather than recall his poor manners, their mysterious house guest smiled, an upward tilt of his lips that was almost mocking.

"It's not possible…," he murmured, feeling the weight of discovery crash down around his ears like the collision of surf to sand. Years, he'd avoided the house high atop the cliff with every discernable muscle, every impulse to visit the dark volcanic rock squelched.

"Agreed, I would have remembered meeting the likes of you…" Jack's voice trailed off as he tore away from the child's face and studied his surroundings.

The lad tilted his head, a gesture of mistrust that he must have learned from his mother; curious how the lad had grown like a weed though he ought to have known her child from the moment he'd entered the room. Of course! Life, ever cruel, had led him bloodied, broken and disillusioned to the last place on Earth that he'd willingly have gone.

"Your name's Turner, I suppose?" Jack intoned glumly, his voice harsh and reedy from lack of use and dehydration from his usual ration of rum. Will's features brightened considerably; one of the most infamous pirates in the whole of the Spanish Main had heard of him—his reputation as a buccaneer was growing!

"I thought it might be. Turner, it's always bloody Turner," he lamented, putting a hand to his forehead with his eyes rolled to the back of his skull. He'd escaped delirium and wandered unwittingly into hell. Will frowned starkly; he knew that his mother had known Captain Sparrow on some level—she'd recognized him on the beach almost instantly—but he'd assumed that they had been friends. From his bitter diatribe, and the way his eyes were greedily seeking the nearest escape, William surmised that Jack Sparrow and his parents had been bitter enemies. His imagination took off like a bird, creating all manner of scenarios in which his parents may have had contact with this man. Undaunted by his surly demeanor, Will pulled the forlorn stool from the corner of the room and sat down, still colorfully adorned in Jack's effects, with a plop at the bedside, his eyes never leaving Jack Sparrow's face.

A low stream of hissed colorful oaths suggested that the Captain was less than pleased at a prospective reunion. He muttered to himself, steadily, his voice rising occasionally in cadence when his temper became too much; his chest tightened and the wound he'd thought only a nightmare reminded him of its authenticity.

"Are you the pirate I've read about? Jack Sparrow?" Will quizzed innocently, as though he weren't interested in anything the infamous Captain had to say; in truth he was waiting with baited breath, leaning forward on his chair in silent anticipation.

"Captain…," Jack corrected with a dignified sniff. "What's left of 'em, I suppose…" Tiredly, his hand drifted from his clammy forehead, down the rough, dark growth of his jaw line, to his chin, where his fingers grappled with his beard to tug on them in anxious strokes. Down they curved to the point of his chin, and they would have continued onward; the long fingertips paused as though to ask an unspoken question. Jack's dark brows drew to a sharp point as he traced his fingers over the crisp line of his patrician jaw again and again until, when he could bear it no more, he asked with a panicked voice:

"Gone? Why is it gone? It should be where I left it! These things do not simply disappear…." His eyes had all the raving fires of madness, his feverish forehead gleamed with perspiration.

"No, no. Not good! Please….not again!" he continued in a soft candid whimper; Jack lifted the covers of his bed as though searching for an item of apparel not found on his person. The man, who'd lain ill—silent as a grave marker—frantically overturned his pillows and sheets, until in exhaustion, he slumped against the oak head board with a howl of dissatisfaction.

Shocked by Jack's peculiar ravings, Will dropped the compass from his hands and ran from the room in fear, shaking off the much-abused coat as he slipped into the hall. His mother was right! He ought never to have entered the room. More importantly, the stories were true—the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow was as mad as a … . His feet skidded to a halt, his eyes blurred by a red object shoved unceremoniously beneath his nose. The round shape, a fragment of pieces like a broken mirror shaped into something like a round scarlet ball, clenched in a trembling, angry fist.

"Cripes!" he burst out when he recognized the object as his calling card; a single red tomato clutched violently in his mother's palm. Old Pinch had struck a low blow—he'd gone straight to William's one and only weakness— his unyielding reverence for the fury of his mother's temper. Oh, she was a tempest, her hair loosed about her face; she'd very clearly stalked home straight from her shop, infuriated by Pinch's report, which indubitably had meticulously reported every last moment of his escapade. As he blinked at his red, silent accomplice, he considered his routes of escape. He had two avenues; either he could remain in the hall to bear the brunt of his mother's fury, or he might infuriate her more by returning to the room which he was never supposed to have entered in the first place, thusly enraging her all the more. He only hoped that by turning on his heel to run back into the sick room, Jack Sparrow's presence might earn him the reprieve to forestall his mother's terrible judgment.

"Why—how did you…," she sputtered seemingly at a loss as her fingers tightened reflexively around the innocent tomato and squeezed until he feared it might pop to pulp at the pressure. Instinctively, he backed further into the room, leading his mother into his subtle trap.

"What were you thinking? Master Pinch said that you raised a full scale rebellion in his classroom. The trick is so low I don't even know where to begin…" He was cornered, trapped in the sickroom that contained the vibrant evidence of his other insubordinations. Jack's coat lay in a crumpled heap on floor, and he'd no doubt that like Pinch, the great sea Captain would waste no time in divulging all of his secrets. The man, whose posture had been slack against the headboard, seemed to straighten instinctively at the timbre of his mother's dulcet angry tones, and William noted that it was a common reaction from all men who had come to know her fury during the time she commanded the Empress.

"I can explain everything…," Will began timidly, sliding Jack's hat off of his head and guiltily tucking it behind his back. "But first, there is something I think you should see… . He's awake…"

Elizabeth would hear nothing of it. Her mind had inwardly marveled at the ingenious and methodical planning of her son's daring caper, but she'd not have time to revel at his clever intellect. Her ceaseless confrontations with the unpleasant school master had left her at her wit's end as to what to do with William's behavior. Short of chaining him to his school chair, there was little she could do to contain his restless spirit.

"Remarkable—this is the second week in which Master Pinch has come to see me in my shop as a result of your…" She struggled to find the correct word, but in her blinding fury with her son, she could find none. Fortunately, she found aide from an unexpected quarter.

"Shenanigans?" Jack suggested tiredly from his bed, in an unobtrusive tone that contained, unless Will was mistaken, a hint of amusement.

"Don't interrupt me," Elizabeth responded automatically, as though Will had volunteered the desired vocabulary. The corners of Jack's lingering mustache curled upward, intrigued by her fury and singular distraction. She was ordinarily vigilant to a fault, observant of every minute detail, but in her flight of temper she remained blissfully unaware of his altered state. Purposefully, he settled himself to watch the exchange with gleaming eyes. The lad was not at all what he had expected in a sire of Will Turner, though he suspected from what he gathered of the lad's escapades that he shared a closer resemblance to the eldest Turner, 'Bootstrap Bill'.

"And further more for you to tell me that you can explain it all away…" Elizabeth drew a heaving breath as the mysterious tomato resurfaced. Inquisitively, Jack shifted his head to ascertain whether or not he was imagining the fruit, or if she intentionally held it in her fist as though it were a crude bludgeon, and concluded that it was not his delirium. His shift caused the beads in his hair to dance, jingling merrily as he moved, suggesting in a mocking movement his intentions to ridicule her discomposure.

Elizabeth staggered, as though hit with a blow in the shoulder, her son's words of warning hitting her squarely in the ear for the first time. A jingle and an unheralded announcement from her son had been the only celebration of his return to life.

A strangled cry ripped from her throat, her body froze as the furious anger drifted from her body replaced by mingled joy and relief. Every day she'd returned home from her shop, half-dreading the long trek up a curved flight of stairs into a cheerless bedroom, expecting to find Jack rigid with death.

The man before her was alive and warm; he even hazarded a smile, even though she suspected it was at William's antics and not out of happiness to see her. A simple smile from his lips as opposed to the more familiar grimace-like contortion of pain was all that it took to take her feet to flight. Without reason, her weak legs lurched toward the bed; she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, scarcely able to breathe past the tremendous lump that had clogged her throat.

He stiffened defensively, his every muscle in his body taunt. Not the reunion he'd been expecting; though it was difficult for him to deny that he hadn't imagined what it might be like to see her again. He expected something more along the lines of the stern verbal thrashing that her mysterious son had been receiving before his interruption. The tight warmth of her arms and weight of her body as it crashed into his was too much to bear. He felt a singe of pain; electric hot fire burning his chest; it became difficult to breathe and he inhaled sharply as the air was cut from his lungs, though whether it was from his injury or something entirely more unpleasant remained to be seen.

"Easy on the goods, darling," he wheezed into the soft tuffs of hair that had loosed from her long, golden braid. Startled, Elizabeth grabbed hold of her rampaging emotions and with a show or iron mastery pushed the brimming tears away.

"You're alright. I've….we've been worried….you've been ill for days …," she managed thickly, after a long silence had ensued. Jack nodded, absorbing the limited information in stride, his eyes consuming the sight of the tired lines beneath her eyes, the haggard unhappiness around her mouth. He wondered whether the alteration of her appearance was a discrepancy of his memory, a result of the rough passage of ten rum-soaked years, or a direct consequence of his injury. He sincerely doubted the latter; why should Elizabeth trouble herself on his account? She'd never done so in the past; it was down right beyond the bounds of her character. He considered, temporarily, that he might still be hallucinating, and that the play of emotions across her face, like the bluster of autumn leaves across the fields, changeable in sound and color, were all an elaborate working of his twisted subconscious, had there not been something so unmistakably solid and earthly in her demeanor.

"I seem to be missing my effects, items of a personal nature that are quite dear to me," Jack shifted the topic of subject abruptly, his eyes fixed on William, who had seized an opportunistic moment to replace Jack's crumbled coat on its respective hanger.

"Jack, I hardly think this is the time … . After all, you've only just recovered … . You've not even told us how you came by that wound …" His face was slick with the sheen of perspiration, as though the task of conversation were too overwhelming for his recovering body. In contrast, his individualized features were frozen, his eyes wide, as though he were reliving the precise moment when he'd received the shot in question.

"And you've not told me," he rasped heavily, taking his time to pause between words. "How I came to be without my beard." Swallowing heavily, he scrutinized her face, searching for an honest answer as to the mysterious disappearance of his dangling facial hair, which had been swept clean of his features by a cunning blade. He had his suspicions as to the culprit, though he chose the route of the gentleman; better to allow her to suffer in silence than to openly accuse her.

Elizabeth's features froze in a position similar to Jack's when she had questioned him about the origin of the shot wound. Aha! He seized upon the reaction, eager to keep her bright mind from inquiring further into his affairs.

"That's interesting," he remarked dryly, a contemptuous lift of his brows honored her inexplicable muteness.

"Why is the beard gone, Elizabeth?" Her face screwed up with determination and to his surprise, she would not submit to his determination to cow her.

"Why did you lose your tongue when I asked about your wound?" She'd seen through his ruse and he'd over played his hand—she was suspicious.

"I didn't," he demurred coolly. "I didn't want to frighten you or the lad, that's all; it's not a tale for gentle ears. Better left untold to those who are faint of heart…" William snorted unbecomingly in contempt; his ears were far from gentle. There was little that could send him running from the room, save for the threat of an encounter with Master Pinch and his infamous swiping birch.

"Moreover, I think I've had enough excitement for one day." Judiciously, he ran his hand over his wound and unleashed a pitiful groan, doing his best to appear pathetic. To his surprise, Elizabeth's quizzical features softened unrecognizably, until they were almost tender in their sadness.

"If the story is better left untold for the time being, I'm content to wait until you're stronger to hear it. I see you've met William; ordinarily he's a well-mannered lad but today, he's made it his business to run wild like a savage. I'll see to it that he won't disturb you further," Elizabeth intoned, fixing her son with a fierce stare, indicating that she hadn't forgotten his exploits.

"But mum!" he burst out with a sour expression; he disliked the notion of being barred from Jack Sparrow's room now that the man was awake! He wanted to hear the stories straight from the man's lips so that he might have something with which to brag to the other lads in the school yard. Sternly, Elizabeth fixed him with a cutting glare and produced the flaming tomato from her apron pocket. All protests died from his lips and his defiant, argumentative stance drooped like a flower beneath the withering heat of the sun.

"March! You're going straight to bed. If you so much as think for a second of sneaking out of your bedroom window …" Her temper got the better of her, and the easily bruised tomato exploded into a messy pulp in her hands, splashing red juice to rest against the contrasting ashen pallor of William's skin. He needed no further intimidation; with his head bowed and spirits utterly dejected, he drug his feet from the room, stealing furtive glances at Jack Sparrow as he moped. He'd find a way to burgle the illicit sick-room again, even if it meant he'd escape his room in some manner of disguise. Perhaps as a gypsy! The plan was a guaranteed success! He went to his room, brooding over what manner of costume he might concoct, inspired by the trinkets and various trappings of the Turner family's very own pirate!

* * *

Of course, Elizabeth reasoned as her hand stilled on the brass knob, having returned from thrice checking the lock of William's bedroom window, she was not entirely unpleased to see Jack Sparrow. His arrivals into her life typically heralded a crude mixture of disaster and adventure; spiced with intrigue, but none the less appealing.

Elizabeth fully intended to question him more thoroughly over the most pressing questions on her mind: how had he received his wound, what sort of trouble had he been in before he had bludgeoned back into her life, a bloody carcass not fit for death's doorstep? Why had he never come to Shipwreck City for a length of time that seemed longer than a decade? As her surefooted steps led her back to the sick-room, she had a change of heart. That oughtn't to be the first and foremost question on her mind, Elizabeth chided herself as she straightened the disturbed folds of her apron which was stained heavily with the blood of an innocent tomato.

The door to his room squeaked, in time with the faint surge of her heart. Ten years; she'd waited for this moment, hoping that the ghosts of the man she had seen lingering in the strangers of Shipwreck City might be him, with his cocksure smile, and hazardous wits. She long envisioned a reunion, not, she assured herself, of a whimsical type, where she might fawn at his heels as she once had. She was far too practical for that any more; no, rather she wished after ten long years bearing the burden of a heart the weight of a stone, to pay some sort of tribute to him. Once, she had thanked him for his unacknowledged human decency, for saving Will's life and hers on that most terrible of days when the sun seemed to forever blotted from her sky, but it hadn't seemed enough. There was more left to be said, and she had promised herself, in the nights of vigil over his fever-tortured form that if he survived, she'd make certain that she'd find someway to repay him, to offer him more than her feeble 'thank you'.

Guiltily, her eyes lifted to the bed, to find his eyes closed in blissful repose, his limbs contorted not with delirium but with the weighty exhaustion of one who slept like the dead but who was not among them. His lashes were still; his lips and cheeks peaceful at last. Elizabeth sighed with relief; he'd spared her again the task of venturing into the markedly dangerous waters of her never ending gratitude and regret. Better not to broach the subject, not when, she realized, they were both recovering from his near demise; she hadn't slept soundly knowing he was lingering so very close to death.

Her posture relented and she abandoned in her quest to ferret out his secrets. Instead, she made a fuss of straightening the covers he had mussed. Lifting his limp wrist between her forefinger and thumb, she tucked the blankets beneath his arms with the pretext of preventing him from catching a chill. Ten years she'd waited to requite his generosity of spirit; if even in this, a small act of compassion she might make amends, she'd do so without question. His covers were tidy, the pillows fluffed to perfection behind his head; Elizabeth's trembling fingers brushed away a dread lock away from his cheek as though it were a single-tear upon his cheek, before she rushed from the room in shame.


	4. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Thanks for reviewing, everyone! We're delighted you like our story :)

_Irisia: _We're two writers: ladyofthesilent and savvysparrow. Don't worry about English not being your mother tongue! It isn't mine (ladyofthesilent's) either, but with a bit of practice and a good beta, you'll soon discover that it isn't so hard to write in English! Good luck and thanks for your feedback! It's greatly appreciated!

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**Chapter 15 **

The port was buzzing like a beehive; dusty heat surrounded him like the suffocating warmth of a blanket drawn too tight on a blistering summer's night. Two hours had passed since darkness had fallen, pulling the torrid sun to a temporary grave, but it seemed a town like Tortuga was never granted the relief of cooling shade. Standing on the deck of the _Captive Swallow_, Captain Will Turner scoured his memories, trying to remember when h'd last smelled the smoke of flickering torches illuminating the Caribbean night, the sweat of dozens of sailors jammed into narrow streets, and the nauseating odour of cheap perfume leading the way to a ready wench waiting in a darkened doorway. The years spent on the _Flying Dutchman_, solely devoted to a duty imposed on him by an unyielding goddess had changed his perception of time; sometimes, it felt as if a whole lifetime had passed since he'd left Elizabeth at the rocky shore of Shipwreck Island, but there were also days when he thought it couldn't have been more than a few months, a surreal adventure, forgotten like a dream at dawn. It was only when he thought of his son that time seemed to take shape, the shape of 10 years he'd missed and yet couldn't think of as wasted.

More than a decade ago, he'd made port at Tortuga in search of the very man who had once introduced him to the town's sinful splendour. He'd still been dressed in his wedding coat, an alien elegantly tailored creature; he found that same feeling of not belonging anywhere was still familiar to him. In the past, he'd neither felt at home among Port Royal's high society, nor between the pirates of Tortuga, and the heavy burden that had lain itself upon his heart ever since he'd been reunited with his father at the Cape of the Sinner's Tongue seemed of a similar kind. Did he really belong on the high seas, while his wife and son were waiting at Shipwreck City? Life had taught him that the truth had many layers; he wanted his family to be safe and his son to be proud but far beneath the obvious lay a darker reality.

_'There are uncharted waters in every man's heart, Will. And they are full of shoals and monsters.'_

He shuddered at his father's parting words, and though it was not for the first time, he began to wonder whether Bootstrap Bill Turner had been speaking of the Raider or about something entirely different--something so inherently dark and personal he was ill-prepared to face the shadows.

He absentmindedly stroked the ship's rail as he observed his crewmembers extend the gangway. Apart from five individuals who had been unlucky enough to catch the shorter straw, he'd given them leave for the night, and they were eagerly anticipating an evening spent in the infamous taverns and brothels of Tortuga. Whilst at their homes in Shipwreck City, some of them were married or engaged, but Will knew from experience that these bonds lost their meaning when the sea called; the realization terrified him.

"Beggin' your pardon, Captain …," Henry Fogarty, the boatswain whom Will had chosen as company began haltingly, uncertain whether his Captain's thoughtful mood would allow the interruption. His eyes glittered in the torchlight, but to Henry, it seemed as though they weren't seeing what was before them but burned instead right into depths he didn't want to fathom. "What exactly are we doing here?"

The words took their time to penetrate his conscience through the mist of thoughts enshrouding him, and when Will finally turned to his boatswain, the answer he gave came as a surprise.

"We're looking for a man," he heard himself say. "An old acquaintance."

"But I thought we was trying to gather information on the East India Trading Company." Henry Fogarty seemed confused, and Will didn't blame him. It was a mystery, even to himself, where the thought of finding Jack Sparrow had sprung from.

It wasn't too far-fetched a plan; all too clearly, Will remembered the fading scar on Jack's wrist, the "P" bearing witness to the fateful day his path had crossed that of Lord Cutler Beckett's.

Jack knew more about the company than he let on, Will had always suspected as much but that didn't explain his desire to find the pirate. He felt himself in a corner, unable to go any further from where he was now, and whatever else could be said for Jack, he had always been one to give a lost sailor a kick in the right direction.

"The man we're looking for will be able to help us," Will replied sternly, the tone of his voice tolerating no dissent, and Henry couldn't help but think that his Captain was uncommonly tense. William Turner neither feared the Ghost Raider, nor the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, but it seemed that whatever he expected to find at Tortuga frightened him; the observation did nothing to allay Henry Fogarty's own fears.

"W-w-where do we start?" he asked, not because he wanted to know, but to disrupt a silence he knew would become threatening.

"The Faithful Bride," Will whispered _sotto voce_, deep from the dregs of memory. "Yes … that's where he used to go."

The town's voice, rich and distinct in its diversity soon enveloped them with words and syllables familiar and foreign, spoken in the throes of passion or fury's grip, and while they headed for the tavern he'd visited with Jack so many years ago, Will felt the pirate's lingering influence. If the world and all its dwellers were caught in some kind of machinery, Tortuga had somehow managed to escape its change-inducing gears. The tar-stained air, the scent of powder mixed with smoke and tobacco, the rum, the vapour of the incense the Africans burned in their huts at the town's edge – all exotic and yet strangely familiar, still carried the memory of a journey that had led his life in a new direction; a journey he felt that had not yet come to pass.

He had come a long way from the inexperienced youth he had been when he'd first enjoyed a pirate's company. When they entered the dimly lit realms of the "Faithful Bride", the pandemonium its customers created no longer appeared menacing to him. They had barely crossed the threshold, apparently home to a whole clanship of woodworms, when two girls approached them, both clad in colourful, daringly low-cut dresses. There could be no doubt as to their profession. For a split-second, Will feared they might be the same girls who had once greeted him with a hearty slap to report to Jack; on second glance, however, he found they were far too young to have been around ten years ago, and when one of them a feisty blonde with a pleasing smile cooed an invitation into his ear, he politely declined and walked on.

Leaning over to Fogarty, he ordered the boatswain to seek out an unoccupied table, then positioned himself at the bar from where he could see as much of the tavern as the scanty lighting allowed.

His eyes wandered over the varied guests seated at the tables, on barrels or lying on the dirty floor, but none of them bore any similarity to Jack as he'd known him. There was not the slightest trace of his black mane – would it be interlaced with grey now? – his faded red headscarf or his worn old hat. If Jack wasn't busy in one of the rooms upstairs, it was unlikely he was anywhere near, a realization that brought up mixed emotions, somewhere in between relief and disappointment. Briefly, he considered walking around to see if he hadn't missed his drunk figure asleep in a darkened corner, but some of the other pirates present were already eying him curiously, and unwilling to attract attention, he retreated to Fogarty who was waving at him from a table located on the other side of the room.

"Is our man here?" the boatswain inquired; Will shook his head and pretended to look out for the barmaid. He was still busy doing so when a young, ebony-skinned woman carrying a rum-stained tray appeared within his range of vision.

"Anything you'd like to order?"

"Rum. For myself and my companion…" He gave a questioning look to Fogarty, who nodded acquiescently. The bar-maid was about to turn round when Will changed his mind and put his hand on her arm. "Wait," he whispered. "There's something I need to ask you."

She glared at him with big black eyes as if she couldn't believe what he'd said, then shook off his hand in an affronted gesture. "Not even if you was Davy Jones himself!"

"No, nothing of that kind," Will murmured reassuringly, in a desperate attempt to quell her anger before the entire tavern would catch wind of their presence. "I am here because I am looking for an old –" He found it somewhat hard to say the word, but to escape the tiring questions, he used it anyway. "—friend."

The waitress no longer looked enraged, but rather irritated.

"Go on. And who might that friend be?" she asked, displaying an open lack of interest.

„Jack Sparrow."

Fogarty gasped with shock and the bar-maid instantaneously began to giggle. The boatswain was clearly dying to make a remark, but Will silenced him with a wave of his hand turning his attention back to the sniggering woman.

"He was here?"  
"Oh no! Never met him me whole life. But I've heard ... stories…" She tittered some more. "Who hasn't heard of Captain Jack Sparrow? His vessel is said to be –" She paused portentously and looked from Will to Fogarty. "—legendary!" With a huge grin on her lips, she disappeared to fetch their drinks.

Fogarty leaned across the table and whispered in an almost conspiratorial tone: "Jack Sparrow? But Captain … does Teague know?"

"Teague? What's this got to do with Teague?" Of course, he knew that Captain Teague, the person he most dreaded in his new life at Shipwreck City was Jack's father, but he failed to see why he should make it known to the old crock how he intended to achieve his goal of finding the Ghost Raider.

"I've lived me whole life at the Cove and I know … certain things." He lifted his head and looked around, almost as if to make sure that Teague himself wouldn't turn up behind him while he spilled his family's dark secrets. He continued with a low voice. "Captain Teague and his son are at odds with each other."

Will released a snort of contempt unable to contain his amusement at his boatswain's ridiculous demeanour. "I hardly know anyone who isn't at odds with Captain Teague."

"'t is different, though," the boatswain continued unperturbedly. "You've never heard what they say?" The question was purely rhetorically, and Will didn't trouble himself with an answer. "They say that one day, Teague took his wife and child with him on the _Captive Swallow_, the very ship we're sailing on now … no one figures the circumstances, but when he returned, he was all alone…dark stories, says they."

The bar-maid returned, placing two mugs on the table; Will gave her a few coins, then turned his attention back to Fogarty's impressive gulp from his drink before he continued his tale. "Some say t'was Calypso done told him so; others say it was the sea who reclaimed her rightful place at his side." He paused for a moment and leaned closer, Will instinctively followed suit. "Whatever the stories be, he killed the woman, plain as day," the boatswain whispered. "Then sold her child to the slavers."

"What?" Will exclaimed, a little too loud perhaps, but he was overcome with a wave of panic he couldn't suppress. "You … you mean he killed his own wife?"

"So it would seem," Fogarty replied, taking another swig from his mug. "No one knows for certain. Teague never let slip what happened..." He smiled as if he'd shared a particularly well thought-out ghost story, but Will felt the icy grip of fear taking hold of his heart. His own wife and child sprung to his mind--Elizabeth and William were still at Shipwreck City, possibly in the company of a mad man! His stomach turned at the realization of the danger they were in, at the mercy of a man so cold-blooded he'd killed his own wife. And Jack … well, it was little wonder Jack was half-mad, any one would be after what he'd gone through. _No_, Will decided, there was no way he could continue on his quest to find the Ghost Raider. He had to return to Shipwreck City with all haste.

"I …," he began, planning to inform Fogarty of his newly made plan, when a hand met his cheek with such force he was seeing stars.

"So—," a high-pitched voice screeched. "You're the rat who calls himself the friend of Jack Sparrow?"

"Why yes…at least I thought I was…Now I'm not so certain..." His head was still spinning, and he didn't know he was saying anything at all, but his words caught him another slap more violent than the first. For a moment, there was nothing but the burning pain of his cheek, but when his vision cleared, he was gazing into the enraged face of a slim blonde woman whose dirty, painted features did a terrible job of hiding her aged and spent appearance.

„Am I to understand he hasn't been here for some time?" Will said, still perplexed and unable to form a clear thought.

„Ten years, you might say," the woman whom he now recognized as one of the prostitutes who had slapped him before clamoured. „Ten years!" She raised her hand, intending to slap him again, but this time, the boatswain intervened and grabbed her arm. "Missy, do you no notion of whom you're dealing with? That's Captain William Turner!"

All heads in the tavern turned as if someone had pulled an invisible string, and with the disturbing feeling of everyone looking at him, the awareness of where he was and what was happening returned with a heavy flush.

„But ye ... ye are dead!" a small man with an impressive paunch exclaimed while jumping to his feet with unexpected agility, knocking over his chair in the process.

„No, he isn't! Don't you ever listen to the stories, man?" a forceful voice belonging to a thin, almost skeleton-like pirate with an eye-patch interrupted. "He's been living at Shipwreck City because the Pirate King found a way to break the curse!"

"I've heard Calypso reprieved him," a third one said, and then, the whole tavern seemed to explode into a bright cluster of heated voices trying to drown each other.

The deafening noise seemed to last forever, and when Will looked at Henry Fogarty, he found the boatswain was covering his ears, trying in vain to shut out the agitated voices. It wasn't until the first swords were pulled that one of those present cared to interrupt the debate.

„Wait!" A giant with a long grey beard shouted, firing a gun to the ceiling in an attempt to break through the mayhem. "Everyone here could claim to be William Turner. Who tells me that this man –" He pointed to an elderly man who was lying on the floor, too drunk or dead to take notice of the chaos ensuing around him. "—isn't Will Turner? After all, none of us have ever seen the likes of him before."

„I have!" Giselle said, the imprints of her fingers still visible on Will's cheek, but none of the pirates paid her heed. All eyes were fixed on Will as he was struck with an impromptu idea. Captain Teague's mysterious past faded to the back of his mind, he rose, and when he was assured that all eyes were upon him, he pulled his shirt to the side and revealed the hideous, puckered scar on his chest, right above his heart. The angry red line had a hypnotic effect, and it seemed that never since her opening day had the „Faithful Bride" experienced a longer period of silence.

„That's him," the one-eyed pirate said in awe, and for a moment, the image of a dozen pirates bowing before him crossed Will's imagination. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, and when a quiet "But how –" penetrated the silence, the words forming on his tongue almost came out on their own. "Sea turtles."

„But the Pirate King –"

„Well, she might have sent the sea turtles that dragged me to land," Will confirmed with a sly smile, and the obvious confusion in the faces scrutinizing him made him feel strangely satisfied. Clearly, something could be said about cloaking oneself in legend … even if it was only the advantage of hiding intimate details and emotions behind a wall of mysticism.

He awaited more questions or protests, but he was met instead by an approving murmur, and he couldn't help but congratulate himself on the smoothness of his plan.

"Gentlemen," he lifted his voice above the buzzing and whispering, "I need your help. I seek Captain Jack Sparrow."

„Jack Sparrow?" the crowd shouted in unison, clearly surprised at their famous visitor's strange request.

"Did he escape the locker?" a meddlesome voice inquired. "And now you're trying to catch him." Some of the pirates laughed while others shot angry glances at the disrespectful questioner, but Will was intent on remaining at the helm and replied quizzically: "Not my job, anymore. My issues with Captain Sparrow are entirely….earthly."

„I've heard he gave up piracy," a skinny youth said thoughtfully while his fingers tipped against the rest of a sword sticking in one of the wooden pillars holding the tavern upright. "Didn't make the choice all by his onesies, though. 't was this awful woman he married some years ago."

„A Creole woman, half his age and twice his height," a pale Asian added.

"That is ... eh, fascinating." Will scratched his head, unsure whether the story was even worth searching for a hint of truth. Still, Jack Sparrow had always been full of surprises … "Never would have thought he was the marrying type. Where's he living now?"

The youth might have replied something that sounded like "Austria" – not a bad choice if his wife was adamant on keeping him away from the sea – but a stocky man with a thick black moustache was quick to interrupt him.

„Bollocks!" he exclaimed. „Nothing but vile gossip, Antonio says. My brother saw him not so long ago! Said he had been looking for the Fountain of Youth, and I've heard from another reliable source – a cousin twice removed – that he actually drank from it. He's a five year old now, living in the Custody of a Presbyterian Priest somewhere in the Colonies."

Will couldn't exactly say why, but it sounded like a real possibility to him; he had already opened his mouth to inquire what had become of the _Black Pearl_ and her crew, when a grave voice announced: „Jack Sparrow is dead."

„What?"

„ A tragic story, really," the grave voice, belonging to a man either too small or too thin to be seen from where Will was standing, continued. "There's nothing worse for a pirate than to die in a bed – and in Jack's case, it wasn't any bed, it was a bed in a French monastery on Martinique. They said that when he died of consumption some time last May, there was not a single nun left with her virtue intact."

As it turned out, nearly every pirate present had his own story to provide as to what had happened to Jack Sparrow, and in the end, the only information Will had gained was that the Captain of the _Black Pearl_ hadn't turned up in Tortuga for a very long time; which, in turn, meant one thing: Jack Sparrow was dead. Probably not of consumption, and less than likely in a French monastery, but the result was still the same. It was a strange feeling, stranger than the discovery that Captain Teague might have murdered his own family, and he was still struggling to come to terms with it when walking back to the _Captive Swallow_. He looked at the clock on the warped tower in the town centre; it showed twenty minutes past midnight, and remembering his decision earlier that evening, he couldn't shake the feeling that the clock-hands were telling him something he already knew: It was too late to turn around.

There was no way he could return to Shipwreck City, empty-handed and with a horrible accusation to bring forward against the Keeper of the Code. It was hard to imagine Elizabeth would believe him, and even if she did, she would take his return as an attempt to protect her - and she'd never wanted his protection. Still, he wished he could ensure she and William were safe, unable to fight the feeling of ill omen that had stolen itself into the manifold of Tortuga's treasures.

They'd almost reached the docks when he followed an impulse and dragged his boatswain into a darkened alley.

"Fogarty," he said, unable to hide the tension in his voice. "You … you don't think Teague might be … dangerous?"

Quite obviously, the boatswain had expected something entirely different and laughed in relief when he realized what was troubling his Captain. "Well, as dangerous as you would expect from a man as quick-tempered as Captain Teague, I'd say. And if you're worrying about the King: He likes her. Even if he decided to kill all of Shipwreck City, he'd probably spare her and the boy." He tried a reassuring smile, but it was too dark for Will to see his face.

"Do you believe the stories about Teague killing his wife and selling his son into slavery?"

The question caught Fogarty off-guard, and he considered it for some time before he replied. "Never really thought about it; after all, it's been more than 40 years, from what I gather. But yes, I think there must be some truth to it--when Jack Sparrow returned to Shipwreck City around 20 years ago, he threatened to kill Teague. My father heard it himself, and he's not the only one who says there's a lot of bad blood between them. Who knows …"

_Uncharted waters_, Will thought, the words echoed in his mind, but he fought the urge to ponder their meaning and stepped back onto the street, proceeding his way with the boatswain following close at his heels. "Thank you, Fogarty," he said thoughtfully; uncertain whether the man's affirmations had done anything to assuage his worries. His thoughts were still turning around Elizabeth, his son and Jack Sparrow, a circle he couldn't seem to escape; even the hurried steps behind them, growing louder with the second didn't seem to disturb him until a tug on his coat pulled him out of his reflections.

„Captain Turner?"

Will spun around, but couldn't see anyone apart from Henry Fogarty who was already pulling his sword.

„Sir?" Another tug on his coat, and this time, he noticed that the small voice originated from a source below his range of vision. He slowly lowered his gaze and found himself facing a vaguely familiar looking boy; his scrawny features were surrounded by a veil of stringy dark hair, and his large black eyes were fixed on Will with anxious expectation. Startled, Will realized that he could hardly be older than his own son, twelve at most.

„What is it, boy?" he asked, still trying to remember where he might have seen him before.

„I don't know about today, but one year ago or so, Captain Sparrow was still alive." His voice was still that of a child, high-pitched and laced with fear, the source of which was easy to make out. With a wink of his hand, Will ordered Fogarty to lower his sword and putting a hand on the boy's shaking shoulder, he dropped to his knees so they were speaking eye to eye.

„That's very interesting news," he said softly, and the boy relaxed, obviously proud he could contribute something useful to the legendary pirate's quest. „But how can you be sure?"

„I saw him," he replied, brushing a rebellious strand of hair from his face in a gesture that demonstrated growing confidence. „At Shipwreck City."

„What?" Will couldn't believe his ears; stumbling backwards, he almost knocked over Henry Fogarty who managed to grab him by the elbow and pull him to his feet. „Shipwreck City you say?"

„That's li'l Martino Lascio from Seaweed Road," Fogarty whispered into his ear. „His father died during the war, his mother owns a tailor shop ... wonder what he's doing here."

Will was still digesting the information when the boy went on with his tale. „I am sure it was Captain Sparrow. Came to my mother and asked for a new coat, he did, and in the evening, she told me he's ol' Captain Teague's son. Doesn't look like him much."

„How ... how did he look like?" Will asked, his face pale in the flickering light of the torches. He wasn't yet prepared to face the implications of the boy's story, should it turn out to be true, and he found himself clinging to the quickly fading hope that it was all based on a misunderstanding.

Martino put a finger to his lips, obviously considering something, and when he replied, his eyes were shining with enthusiasm. „Oh, he's at least seven feet tall," he babbled. „And he looked fearsome and threatening, with an eye-patch, and a wooden leg, and ..."

„Alright!" Will interrupted him, putting up a hand in thinly veiled relief. „That's not him." Jack Sparrow might have lost an eye and a leg, but it was close to impossible, even for him, to have grown several inches since their last meeting.

Despite the darkness, he could see the shadow of disappointment creeping across the boy's features, and he was just about to pad his shoulder when Martino spoke once more.

"Well … if I think about it again, he wasn't that big. Actually, if I think about it some more, I'd even say that he was smaller than you, Sir." He paused and looked at Fogarty. "And smaller than him, too. OH! And he had long black hair, with braids like the savages have." Will and Fogarty looked at each other, nodding in grim agreement. There could be no doubt that the man Martino Lascio had seen was indeed Jack Sparrow.

"Thank you, Martino!" Will said with appreciation. "You've done us great service." At least he knew that Jack Sparrow was quite possibly still alive, even though it was disturbing to think he had been anywhere near Shipwreck City--near Elizabeth. The thought sent shivers down his spine, but he wouldn't allow himself to give in to the old-familiar demon called jealousy. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding; maybe Elizabeth hadn't seen Jack at all. If she had, she surely would have told him – wouldn't she?

Without knowing it, Will had walked away from Martino and his boatswain pacing the dock, desperately trying to calm the storm he felt approaching in his aching soul. When he'd been Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_, the future had seemed like a faraway shore seen through a spyglass, but what he'd envisioned was a smooth, sandy beach, not the rocky coastline he felt he was walking now. He had been looking forward to it, but not with desperate longing, as he'd later told Elizabeth. Life on the _Dutchman_ had not only provided him with the keys to the door that led to the realm of the dead, but also with knowledge unreachable to him now. The silhouettes of memory still crossed his mind from time to time, and when they did, he mourned the loss of his ability to assess the ocean's edges, the destination of the waves and the source of light and darkness. Once, he'd been in a position holding control and power, a freedom that meant answering to no one but Calypso herself, and other than Davy Jones, he'd never betrayed her trust. Why was it, he wondered, that suddenly, his life was full of questions, with no forthcoming answers? What had he done to deserve the gods' fury? His hand coiled into a fist and he lifted it unconsciously as if he wanted to bring it down on an invisible table when Henry Fogarty approached him, ending his rumination.

"Captain," he began, his eyes wandering back to the Martino Lascio as if to ensure he wouldn't run away. "I talked to the boy, and it appears the rascal slipped off his mother's grip and left the Cove on a ship he wasn't supposed to be on. What shall we do with him?"

Will took a moment to direct his senses back to what his boatswain was talking about, but when his eyes met the tiny figure standing alone in the Tortugan night, shoulders sloping, his decision was made. If his own son had run away to a place like this, he would be beside himself with fear and sorrow, hoping against hope that one of the pirates would have a spark of decency in him and take the boy back home.

_Besides, this could be his chance ..._

"You come with us. You're in good fortune—we're about to return to Shipwreck City."


	5. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks for reading, reviewing and adding us to your favourites/alert lists :)_

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**Chapter 16**

They stared at each other in silence, two solitary companions, each privy to their deeply buried thoughts. Occasionally, one head might lift from its search of the floor to offer a tight apologetic smile.

"How about a story Jackie? I daresay you've fortified yourself enough, what with the vitals I provided." Teague inclined his head to the bottle of rum, tucked like a small infant in the crook of Jack's arm as he reclined peacefully into the wood bed frame, made more massive in size by the shrunken, sickness-worn angles of his emaciated body. His father had been hounding him for a quarter of an hour about the details of his story, why he had returned to Shipwreck City with a tell-tale shot of lead that had barely missed his fragile lung. He'd not wanted to be forthcoming; Jack embraced only his own council when it came to the tales of his life, as any stories told to outside sources became vastly exaggerated to the point of absurdity when they made it into the history books.

"I'd tell you but I have a feeling you already..." His speech slurred to a stop as the door to his room popped open.

"I'll not say it again. You're to go to the library and complete your studies. If I hear as much as a peep from you, consider my warning," Elizabeth threatened young Will with her eyes flashing dark daggers. Blissfully unaware of her threatening gaze, he continued to peer into the room to greedily drink in the sight of Jack before the door was snapped shut in his face.

"I suppose it was you what put him up to this; been pestering me all morning about how I landed in Shipwreck City un-chaperoned," Jack intoned crossly; he took a miserable swig from a non-descript brown bottle, smacking his lips with satisfaction as he did. The scent of the bottle carried across the room to Elizabeth's disgruntled nostrils.

"You've given him rum?" she demanded, turning her sternest gaze, reserved ordinarily only for her unruly son, on Captain Teague, who rewarded her with an even smile.

"Fortification lass; knowing my son, the tale will be long and I hate to see a man die of a parched throat in an oasis such as this."

Elizabeth dropped onto her stool, wondering whether or not she wouldn't require a drop of fortification or two in preparation for Jack's story. The aftermath of his adventure had been quite enough for her to bear.

Teague tugged on her arm and pulled her close to whisper into her ear as his son proceeded to drain the remainder of the bottle. "Better to loosen his lips and his tongue with rum. He'll be more forthcoming with the spirit in him." Teague's grin widened and Elizabeth's eyes grew round with wonder. It was true; Jackspoke more openly when he imbibed. Her desperation to know the truth about Jack's mysterious return had imbued her with the power of patience, to wait for five days while he recovered the strength to speak. She'd never have thought of urging him to drink so that the story might spill from his lips; Teague was a ruthlessly cunning man, for a father.

"What are you two whispering about?" Jack demanded suspiciously, as he turned the bottle upside down to determine whether he'd drunk it dry.

"Sea turtles dear boy… Now about that story." Teague pointedly reached for his belt, his fingers restlessly tracing the curved butt of his pistol.

"Once upon a time…I believe that's how these stories begin…," Jack sputtered into story with a nervous jump, his eyes never leaving Teague's hand. "A man, nay a resplendent legend named Captain Jack Sparrow…" An impolite cough, meant to mask a sharp bark of laughter resonated with a rumble from Teague's chest and he did his best to cover his smile with his hand as he waved his son on to continue.

"No? You're right. That isn't the most correct place to start. But how to begin…" He applied his fingers to his chin as though to stroke his beard, but when his fingers touched supple skin as opposed to the gruff growth, he cast Elizabeth a dark look and proceeded down a different avenue. "You've heard, I assume, of the villain known only to some as the Ghost Raider?" he quizzed innocuously, as though he were inquiring about the state of the weather or the conditions of the roads. Unable to contain herself, Elizabeth let out a small gasp, which she soon stifled with both of her hands, her eyes wide at the dreaded name. The reaction provoked the edges of Jack's mustache to curl upward, while in contrast, Captain Teague's expression grew as dark as a cloudy day.

"Heard of him? We've caught the rougher winds of his marauding. In fact, the _Captive Swallow_ is currently hounding his heels, sans Captain of course." Teague spoke slowly, his words measured in cadence and strength.

"Oh, I see. And as you are, at the moment, enjoying the comfortable contours of a wooden chair in the safety of home and hearth, I'll have to hazard a guess as to the identity of the unfortunate devil, what challenges the Ghost Raider, eh? Last name wouldn't happen to be Turner, would it?" Jack cast a scrupulous glance at Elizabeth's troubled expression; when she worried for Will, her face would take a familiar pensive shape, a hint of the dull ache of her heart cast in a marble complexion.

"Yes, he left several days ago to pursue the Ghost Raider. With any luck, he's already found him." Her reply was stiff, a labor of intense concentration so that not a flaw was to be located in her mask of strength. In truth, the manner in which he had spoken of his quest had instilled in her the dissipating hope that he might locate the Raider in a series of days; the long days of waiting that had passed in conjunction with the weight of Jack's return had lent her many a sleepless hour.

"Found? You cannot hunt an ancient evil summoned to wreak its destruction upon the human race. The Ghost Raider was brought to this earth centuries ago to maintain and manage a strait known as the Cape of Good Fortune. However, as time passed, it is said that the good Captain came to be driven mad by the losses he sustained amongst the grueling rocks and passages, and re-christened that God-forsaken spit of land: The Cape of the Sinner's Tongue…"

Elizabeth scoffed openly, her brows cocked with skeptical insubordination. "That's yesterday's rubbish. Will believes, as do I, that the Raider is nothing more than a mortal man, taking advantage of the stories to serve his own purposes."

Jack twisted the corners of his sheets around his fingers noncommittally, an unspoken challenge to Elizabeth's naïve assumptions.

"You believe the stories, I suppose." She fired back, disappointment glazing the fires of her eyes. Teague folded his arms across his chest in impatience at the lack of continuity in the story.

"Scoff if you dare, I once was like you: Trusting, innocent to a fault and blind to the world—until my eyes were forced open by one, insignificant shot." Jack pulled back the contours of his shirt to reveal the fresh gauze that covered a still seeping splash of crimson. Horrified, Elizabeth tore her eyes away from the wound and brought them searchingly to Jack's face.

"You mean to tell me that you were shot by the Raider?" she demanded, unable to keep her astonishment from her tone. She hadn't meant to sound skeptical, but his claims were too far-fetched to believe. His expression darkened as he lowered his eyes to the folds of his blankets, where his hands sat clasped as though in prayer before he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"How came you to meet the Raider? Never figured you for a man to take such hotheaded risks." Elizabeth had been so engulfed by the implications of Jack's announcement that she'd forgotten completely of Captain Teague's existence, let alone his imposing presence in the room. The dark hollows of his voice, reverberating like the strength of the mighty oak, grounded her flights of fancy and calmed her pounding heart. If Jack's story was true, and she had no reason to suspect yet that he was playing her false, Will was in the gravest of danger.

Jack eyed her perceptively, sensing the rushing waters swirling around her head, the overwhelming helplessness she felt while a loved one might have put himself directly into the path of a madman.

"H-how did it happen?" Elizabeth managed, stealing a glance to Captain Teague, who looked not so much rattled by the stunning admission, but rather, as though his darkest suspicions had been confirmed. His face remained impassive though the tap of his fingers against the wooden arm of his chair indicated his impatience to hear the remainder of the story, and perhaps, that he too was worried Will might not be able to withstand the dangers of the Cape alone.

"Like much of the Pirate ilk, I had my motivations for discovering the Raider and putting a stop to his chicanery."

Teague snorted contemptuously and rotated his head to address what might tempt Jack Sparrow to brave the danger. "You might say greed was your motivation. There was a reward I suppose?" Teague quizzed dryly, while his son contained a surge of temper at his motivations being reduced to something so base and insignificant. Though, as he considered his intentions when he set out to find the Raider, admittedly, his only thought had been of the reward.

"There were riches beyond the likes of any pirate's greatest fancy, though I object to that being my sole incentive. I am something of a great humanitarian after all. The Company, mainly the East India Trading Company, has no love of the Pirate kind, but has politely tolerated our presence in the seas so long as our business is conducted fairly—I don't think either side wanted a repetition of the hostilities of ten years ago. It's bad business. However, when the Company started to expand their Trade Routes into the Raider's precious territory, they ran into certain obstacles. Ships that were loaded with cargo and crew upon entering the Cape were noticeably missing said items of interest after they departed. And that's where I came in." He settled back against his pillows, wincing his eyes closed when his wound relived a little of the moment the shot had torn through his flesh with an ear-sickening thud.

"The Company was in search of mercenaries of sorts. Happened to be at the right place at the right time, I suppose. The rest is nebulous at best; I was on one of the cargo ships bound for an uncharted port when we were ambushed. Swirling mists—and oh the screams—makes my blood curdle at how many honest sailors were lost."

Teague coughed politely into his hand, drawing Jack's attention away from the intensity of which Elizabeth was studying the floor, drawn into her own private nightmare, imagining what fate might await her dearly beloved.

"Thought you said you didn't recall much?" Teague queried airily, as though the point were moot. Jack flashed him a weak grin and tossed his shoulders up in a devil-may-care-shrug.

"Chicken feed—a man doesn't readily forget a fallen comrade, no matter the circumstances. May I continue?" he inquired pointedly and with such resolve that Teague lifted his hands to gesture his defeat and silent retreat into muteness.

"In the thick of it all, I was charged to defeat the Raider by any means necessary. I had taken it into my head that the Raider was a mortal too, until I attempted to pierce his flesh. Me sword went straight through him; fell with a clatter to the ground, leaving me defenseless, and the scrupulous phantom armed with bitter resentment and a pistol. I'll give you fives guesses as to which weapon he used. Before I could retreat, he'd pulled his pistol and fired a single shot which sent me over board and into the depths. Next thing I knew, I was here, awoken by your uncouth son rummaging through my effects."

Silence fell across the room; Teague's frown, though it might have been a trick of the fading afternoon light, drew more deeply into his features, as though he were displeased by the turn of events in his son's well-woven tale. Elizabeth sat glued to her chair, unable to move, her mind awhirl with twisted accusations and unanswered questions.

"You say you were shot, and fell into the sea," she repeated at a snail's pace, unable to trust her ears while her mind worked like the noisy gears of an over large clock.

"Yes, I did say that I was shot and fell into the sea, well spotted," Jack confirmed testily, his patience driven to the limit by the wealth of skepticism that met his story. He hadn't expected that the account surrounding his wound and near-death fiasco would be met with anything but calm acceptances and an occasional outburst of horror.

"Then how was it that you managed to come to Shipwreck City? From what I've seen of the maps, the Cape is something of a great distance from this island—too far for any man, let alone a wounded one to swim." Misgiving oozed from her every gesture as she fixed Jack with a heated stare, challenging him; a man for whom lies represented a thin resemblance to the truth, to speak plainly.

Abruptly, Teague rose from his seat; the chair jerked back to afford him a wide berth, as though afraid that if it were to collide with his considerably imposing path that it too might be shot into permanent firewood scrap. "I don't think I need to hear any more. And besides, I want to see what that scamp of a boy has been doing with my old cutlass. You'll excuse me, of course." The absurdity of his polite departure might have been comical in any other circumstances, but Elizabeth did not allow herself the luxury of laughter. Teague was not to be trifled with, nor was he ever to be the butt of a wryly observed amusement. Perhaps his interest was indeed her son; she'd asked Teague in a private aside to speak to William about his behavior in the school yard, but she sensed, as she did the growing distance between herself and Jack, that Captain Teague's reasons for departure had little to do with altruistic motives.

"You sound as though you don't believe me. In fact, if I may be so bold, you seem as though you don't want me here a'tall," Jack observed peevishly, a sour note to his voice as his eyes bore into hers with such intensity that she feigned a scowl so that she would not be trapped by their gaze.

"When have you ever given me reason to trust you, what with your ridiculous stories? Then, on a whim, you return to Shipwreck City, and expect my full confidence. Forgive me if it's ungenerous of me, but no, Jack; I don't trust you. Out with it, why are you really here?"

Elizabeth buried her back into the carved outline of the chair, imbedding herself into the wood work to send a message of obstinate patience. She wasn't leaving until he told some semblance of the truth, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant it was to him.

"Not here by choice, luv. Did you think after our last parting that anything might persuade me to return to your door? Believe me when I say, this was the last place I'd ever hoped to come."

His sullen expression took her aback and likewise, in an effort to mock her as well as to inform her that he too could be equally as mulish; he settled his back into the soggy feather pillows, until his spine collided with the solid pine of the headboard. He crossed his arms, resisting visibly the childish urge to stick his tongue out at her. His temper had been noticeably quicker, on par and equal to the great Captain Teague. Had he been afforded a pistol within arms reach, he might have been tempted to shoot her; it wouldn't have been the first time. This occasion was no exception; the defiant tilt of Elizabeth's chin had irked him to the core. Fortunately, it seemed his last sentence had struck an irritated chord in her otherwise calm aplomb. The insolent angle of her chin dropped, and the misgivings in her features gave way to injury. Unable to bear the sight of a pain that he had caused her, he focused his gaze toward the sea, his one solace and most constant companion.

"And why is that, Jack? As I recall, we parted on a friendly note," she managed thickly; her voice came low, in a whisper that had lost its defenses. There was untold warmth in the tone, affection of a girl who could hardly believe that a man whom she'd once called her friend could think of their parting in any other way but in the throes of deepest solidarity and friendship. Though it grieved him, a strange being had inhabited his body; vindictive spite washed over him like swell of the sea, and in an instant he felt his lips curl in a sardonic snarl.

"Pure necessity; the friendship you felt was utterly one-sided. It was never what I wanted…"

She dropped back into her chair, her lips parted as though he'd struck her across the face. Resentment, reticence, none of these behaviors were typical of the Jack Sparrow she'd known. He'd ever been warm in his greetings, particularly when she had something that played a pivotal role in his latest schemes. It seemed the tide of ten years had swept that man away, leaving something of a hollow shell whose familiar mannerisms were but a cheap trick of light and imagination.

"One sided!" She sputtered indignantly, recalling their parting with such clarity that she nearly repeated it word for word. "Why then did you come, if your feelings were thus? You couldn't have swum that distance without drowning—you must have had help to reach the shoreline. Your story is filled with cannon holes and is on the verge of sinking. Do you not trust me enough to include me in your latest machination?" Desperation made her all the more despicable in his eyes; in all the years he'd known her, desired her from afar, she'd never submitted to such disgusting tactics. She wanted so much to repair their distorted past that she'd surrendered her one, flawless beauty—her unwillingness to bow her queenly head to the will of those around her. Her lapse in good judgment had faltered one other time, to his detriment and ruin.

He struggled to keep his voice low as he thundered: "Trust! Oh that's rich indeed coming from such a paragon of virtue." Surprised by ringing tones of his temper, Jack pursed his lips to stem the floodgates of his scorn. Remorse flooded his heart, but the aching coals of a previously squelched burning fire motivated his drive to continue. Apologies might have been acceptable five years ago, but after ten arduous years of inner torment, he was finished with contrition for their past. "Is that how you broke the curse of the _Dutchman_, with a saber of truth and virtue? I find that hard to believe. More likely, however, is the greater possibility that the curse was not broken after ten years. William isn't searching for the Raider is he, but rather, he was cursed to the seas forever by your wiles and beguiling smile? Be honest--chained anyone to the mast in recent years?"

"The temptation is stronger on some days... Ten years, you never once visited. I thought I saw you every day in the city centre, or sometimes in the pond, bloated and drowned, all this time I thought you were dead." Her voice was low and soft. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand angrily dash away a tear. His heart softened at the sight; he could never bear to see a woman cry—it was one of his worst faults. It led him to loosing his purse to an enchanting tear stained wench more times than he could count on his scarred, weathered hands.

"No, not dead; so sorry to disappoint, my liege. Add that to your running list of my many imperfections. Since our last parting, I don't recall a time in my life when I felt more wholly alive. I've visited every port between the two poles--rum, wenches--all of the joys of piracy with none of the entangling kafuffles of a land locked life." The pointed vocabulary, the glittering stare that made light of her suffering and loneliness was more than her heart could stand. There was no hope for friendship between a pair of embittered old crows, who pecked and scratched at one another until there was nothing left but beaks and scattered feathers. He'd made his sentiments very clear; he'd long forgotten what had once existed of their friendship, the uncommon bond of simpatico spirits. None of their time together mattered any more, the little moments of peace on the _Black Pearl_ that had sustained her when she'd had no real companionship save for the mournful wail of a hungry child to soothe her yearning ears.

"I thought after all that we faced, that we might still hold some allegiance, as brothers and Pirate Lords. We went to battle together, fought side by side…"

Jack sighed heavily, unable to live with the raging animal his guilt had unleashed in his gut; it devoured his heart, wormed away the iron clad shield that encased the fragile flesh that beat quicker in response to her presence in his room. He needed to drive her away once and for all, before remorse inevitably disarmed him, leaving him vulnerable to her assailing attacks that always cut the strength from his knees.

"Cuttlefish." He reminded her in a tone that had steeped in gentleness. He was on the verge of a sound apology when he screwed up his determination with a solid grit of his teeth against the gold caps that lined them. Perplexed, Elizabeth lifted her face to bear the brunt of his last, killing blow.

"There are no ties between pirates—those existed purely for the sake of momentary alliances. There's no honor amongst thieves and beggars, take what you can, give nothing back. It seems you were sorely mistaken…" She stood shakily from her chair, her fists clenched until her nails dug deeply into her skin. Affronted, she cast about her to find any parting words that might tear at his raging ego and arrogance, but found none. He'd disarmed her; the last of the securities she had clung to as an innocent had vanished. Their friendship and her past hopes were tarnished and destroyed, lost in the ashes of a fire that had once burned the kindle of freedom, before it diminished into the bitter solitude of disillusionment. Elizabeth offered him a curt nod; she'd taken his full meaning. If Jack Sparrow had not returned to Shipwreck City for ten years out of friendship for her, she'd been a deluded fool. Without turning to look back, she ran from the room to hide the streaming rivers of tears.

Had she taken but one glance back at the man who'd become a constant source of torment, she might have seen a different man than the proud one who had humbled her to her knees; one whose head hung on his breast in the sheer agony of defeat.


	6. Author's Note 2

Hi there,

just a quick note to

a) say **thank you **for your support and feedback

b) let you know that we're working on **several new chapters**

c) let you know that **updates during the upcoming two weeks will be a bit slow**, since I (ladyofthesilent/sympatex) will be on vacation in Italy.

So, to sum it up: We promise to continue this story, so don't worry if updates in the near future are a bit slow.

We hope you'll stick with us :)

Ladyofthesilent


	7. Chapter 17

_**A/N:** Thanks for your patience, reviews and igood wishes, everyone! I just returned from Verona today, relaxed and with several new chapters for you, and I promise I will reply to your reviews individually; but first, I'll give you Chapter 17, written by the incredible savvysparrow :)_

_Happy reading :)_

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A scherzo of wind swept across the glassy waters, disturbing the mirror the sea had created to honor the beauteous stars of the heavens with its galloping rhythm as it leapt from lumbering wave crest to crest, the only sign of chaos amongst a calm decorum. Doldrums, it was widely believed, were the worst of any ill-fated wind that might carry a ship. Unlike their distant cousins, warm zephyr and contradictory gale, the doldrums neither rippled nor disturbed the sea. Rather, on occasion, the depressed air around a ship might feel a slight fluttering of sails if the doldrums chanced to heave a languid sigh. At the rate they traveled, not even a half a knot in a quarter of a day, they'd never reach their destination, nor would their scanty supplies, reduced to but a barrel of fresh water and a single ration of salt tack, last the crew another week at sea. 

Burdened with troubled thoughts, and the worry that they may never see land again—worse, the cargo filled with gold and precious stones would not be doubled once they reached their destination. The sailors of _The Imposition_, a ship designed for speed and not for size, would die penniless, with no ship in sight to respond to their distress. A small group of men huddled around a single lantern, stooped over a tattered sheet of crumpled parchment, while one man, frantically tried to catch every word that was spoken.

"To me wife Fanny, I leave the whole of me hoard, the lot of it and a farthing to boot," one man sniveled, blowing his nose into a sullen handkerchief, shielding his face from his sea-worn companions to hide the glistening tell-tale tracks of tears that stained clean his dirty face.

"What about your mistress in Cameroon--nothing for her? Seems a shame really; suppose pretty Amy might have a word or five to say about that." Armand, the grizzled stenographer, laughed with a jolly bark as he, in an imprecise, unsteady hand, wrote the Midshipman's final wishes with woeful inattention to spelling and grammar onto the crumpled page.

"Next; what can I do you for?" Quill poised in the air, the ship's galley cook looked up from his parchment, which contained the final wishes of the crewmembers aboard _The Imposition_.

"Captain Morrisey!" he exclaimed, dropping his quill to the ground and jumping up to his feet. Murmurs and repetitions of the word Captain, all spoken with warmth and reverence, rippled through the crowd, as the group of sailors hastily removed their tattered caps and bowed their heads to their chests as signs of respect for their noble commander.

"Gentlemen, as you were," Morrisey offered his solemn crew a faded smile, a gesture of appreciation for their solidarity in their shared plight. Their situation wore heavily on his conscious thoughts; none of his men deserved to die, yet it seemed inevitable that no matter his decision, he'd be leading them closer to that fit.

"Orders, sir?" The first mate, who'd patiently been waiting his turn in the line to sign his name to his last will and testament, peered through the mass of shoulders and stooped heads.

"Aye, you can stir the sheets." Morrisey, ever a man of quiet and precise leadership hesitated as he stared at each one of the gaunt faces, his thick Irish brogue cavorting on the fresh smattering of wind. His men were starving, deprived of the creature comforts of the basest dregs of society. He had no other choice but to take his men where most would dare not to follow.

"Helmsman, make your heading, south by south east. There is a strong current. It will lead us to land…" He paused heavily, taking a large swallow of air. His fingers scratched through his thick, pewter mutton chops as he arranged his words unable to meet the hungry stares, made more desperate by the flickering dance of the solitary lantern.

"I know I said that our course would steer us clear of the Cape-," A few of the men openly shuddered, anticipating his next, death-soaked words. "But we cannot afford to remain at sea. Our rations, if we are frugal, will see us the two weeks time to Abyssinia, but only if we travel through the Cape. We'll reach the Strait at dawn." Grimily, Morrisey stooped and retrieved the frazzled quill, whose wisps of feathers fluttered with the changing wind, eyeing it thoughtfully.

"May I?" he grunted to his galley cook, as he stooped to scratch markings into the parchment that indicated that he had made his peace with his life. What the Captain left to whom in his family remained unannounced to the surrounding crew. As he made his mark on what appeared to some to resemble a death-warrant than a Last Will and Testament, the crew with somber decorum parted to allow Morrisey a dignified berth, each crewman pausing to salute their noble Captain as he passed to his quarters. Loyalty to their commander steeled their courage and prevented them from jumping ship in the long boats. For him alone, they'd brave the worst of terrors. The door to the Captain's quarters snapped shut; the pregnant pause that had followed his wake was filled with the shuddering gasp of the sails as they sprung to life with a kiss of wind.

"Here now, no dallying—who's next to make their mark?" The galley cook's sardonic tone, nasal and biting echoed in the silence as every crew man raised their hand involuntarily, as though they were strange marionettes who had lost the use of their limbs at the hands of a sinister puppet master to the tune of a funeral dirge of snarling gusts.

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Dawn broke; peach fleshy tones disturbed the skies, fading quickly into the warmer rosy hues, edged with a hint of lavender that pushed away the darkness of night. Beneath the warm glow of the sun the fate which had to the crew seemed bleak and as foreboding as the looming obsidian cliffs of the Cape, transformed into a beacon of hope. In the light of day, the thick fortress of rock was made smaller, and even the strait was not wholly immune to the charms of the sun. Flecks of golden sun reverberated off the cliff and blinded the eyes of the sailors who lined the rail. Fleeting hope soared from face to face like the wings of an ascending Lark, whose full voiced song was that of joyful life. Their Captain had, by signing his name to the page that held the final desires of every man aboard _The Imposition_, made a wordless pact, an accord that if it were in his power; all would live to see the opposite side of the Cape. 

Closer, and closer, the distant rocks which had seemed like dots on the horizon grew to the size of terrifying monsters, with jagged claws and fierce grimaces that bore pointed teeth. Shaken, but undaunted, the crew held their ground on the deck each man clutching make-shift weapons; harpoons, knives of every variety, two fishing nets and a scattered collection of antique pistols comprised the arsenal.

"But why do they call it the Cape of the Sinner's Tongue?" young Phillip Pryor, the loyal and beloved cabin boy piped. The ship breached the outer wall of rock, and eased its way gingerly into the narrow passage.

"You're a might young to remember the stories. It wasn't always called that; once it was known as the Cape of Good Fortune, and it was rumored to have been named that because a good many sailors had chosen this very location to hide their riches." To the crew's astonishment, it was Captain Morrisey who took up the tale. There was no betrayal of nerves on his placid features, no sign of weakness as he surveyed the rocks with his spyglass and continued with the tale.

"One such man, a degenerate Captain by the name of Thackeray, took stock in the stories, and sought out the Cape to steal the fortunes of other men. Whether he managed to do so remains unclear; the stories are rarely specific. They are conclusive on one point however; the night that Captain Thackeray took his ship through the Cape, there was a terrible misfortune, and he lost all of his crew to the bowels of the sea. To a man consumed by greed, those circumstances didn't suit. He promised his soul and the souls of his men to the devil if they were allowed to return to the Earth to seek out the hidden treasures." His tongue stilled as the ship passed through the layer of gaseous vapors, which beset the whole of the ship until the sun was blotted from the sky with silvery fingers of grey. Set on edge by the fog, one of the crew men let out a muffled shriek, trembling as he scrambled to get a tighter grip on his harpoon. Phillip tugged on the cuff of Morrisey's coat.

"What became of the Captain and his men?" Phillip piped without a quiver in his voice. Of his companions, Phillip had the steadfast heart of a lion. The mighty Captain shook his head as the sea began to roar in protest. They'd reached the inner most sanctity of the Cape, which was guarded by the gaping mouth of an enormous cave. Though he showed no outward signs of trepidation, Morrisey anticipated an attack; no ship had ever navigated these waters without severe losses. In his latest Company briefing, he had been informed that the Raider's attacks upon the crew had left only a handful of survivors, and were noted for their extreme brutality. He only hoped that in the light of day, they might escape notice while the strange creature that prowled the unholy rock lay in slumber.

"When a man makes a deal with the devil, there is always some unforeseen clause. Thackeray was granted immortality, but only if he became the guardian of the strait. Embittered by a life of indentured responsibility, the Cape transformed from a haven to a monstrous pit, where no ship could find safe passage without being boarded, the crew slaughtered." There was a peak in the Captain's indifferent recitation. Through the swirling miasma, there was a burst of sunlight and his eyes detected the glittering blue of a fresh morning sky. They were nearly through!

"He fashioned for himself a new name: _The Ghost Raider_, and as the seas swirled thick with the blood he had shed, the Cape came to be called the Sinner's Tongue, in honor of the Raider's dealings with Satan."

Morrisey sheathed his scope and turned to bellow orders to his men. "Unfurl the sails, let them fly men. We're through!" he exclaimed in sheer relief, tears burning the fragile lids of his eyes as the burst of blue sky became a surreal reality.

"Captain!" Phillip shrieked in warning, but it was too late. While all eyes had been cast to their future, a dark ship had shifted into their past, trailing after their wake and gaining speed.

"Make ready the guns!" Morrisey shouted, pushing himself to the railing to ascertain what maneuvering options his ship might use for escape, but his orders were drowned by the deafening roar of cannon fire.

"Brace yourselves lads!" A whirling ball and chain circled through the sky, splintering the wooden mast with a mighty crack. The man in the crows nest screamed as he fell to his death, his arms flailing as he made impact with rocks and sea water. _The Imposition _groaned to a halt like a man who had been cut at the knees. Fodder for the approaching ship, the thick mist returned as their fates descended into gloom.

Morrisey's men ran to and fro, passing rounds of ammunition that seemed to be loaded too slowly for some. "Protect the cargo at all costs men, I want six of you down to the holds," Morrisey ordered amidst a cataclysmic crash of ships.

"Aft they're boarding aft!" The fog shifted as men swung from all points. They seemed to spring from the very rock of the Cape, carrying knives in their teeth, their skin as black as their hearts. There was a pinging ring of a sword unsheathed; Morrisey whirled round barely having time to draw his blade to prevent his head from being cleaved from his shoulders. Around him, men screamed in horror, and to his right, one of his men was savagely disemboweled; blood sprayed across the deck, leaving a trail across the pale Captain's skin. Men in their prime were cut down to the left and right of him, as his attacker, a stocky man with an aggressive technique with the blade bore down at him, swiping haphazardly. Worse than the screams of his men and the clash of metal upon flesh was the laughter; maniacal cackling from the man Morrisey could not see but instinctively knew to be the Raider, hacked and slashed his way through the skirmish.

"Captain!" Phillip yelped as he narrowly avoided a killer blow of a sword. Morrisey's blade clashed with his opponents and connected at the hilt, allowing him the opportunity to push the man away with a bodily shove.

"They're taking the hold. Four men have fallen already," Phillip warned; as though drawn to the light timbre of the lad's voice, the Raider's laughter shifted, and changed direction through the mist. He was coming straight for the lad. Seizing the chaos of the Raider's wake as men leapt into the sea to avoid the sharp edge of his sword, Morrisey grabbed Phillip by the shoulder and drug him bodily into his quarters. He drew the bolt and retreated hastily away from the door, preparing to defend it with his last breath.

"We ought to be helping the men defending the hold," Phillip protested loudly; his outrage was short-lived. Morrisey slipped his hand over the boy's mouth and hissed for silence.

"Don't you see? I've stored the hold in here. Our men were ordered below in an effort to forestall the Raider. You must keep your voice low or…" A shot echoed through the Captain's quarters, and the rusted metal lock sprung clean from the wood. Boots applied themselves to the door and kicked it cleanly from the hinges. Phillip was pressed behind Morrisey's back, his arms thrown out wide to shield the lad from harm as the Raider and the man whom he had been engaged in combat stalked into the room, step by echoing step.

"Where be the swag, Captain? We know you have it hidden aboard the vessel, so there's no use prolonging your demise." The tip of the Raider's sword was pressed into the throbbing vein that kept time with his galloping heart. Morrisey's mind worked quickly as he pushed himself to speech.

"W-what swag? This is a trade ship. We're in route to the Caribbean to…" His throat closed as the pointed end drew blood. Morrisey's legs began to tremble; behind him, he felt Phillip's heated hands tugging at his coat, a childish effort to prevent his Captain from being run through.

"Clemency—for the boy…" He changed his tactics abruptly, realizing from the deadened glaze in the Raider's eyes that his life would soon be ended. The hollows of the Raider's eyes shifted, and an ironic grin, revealing his rotting teeth that matched an equally decrepit soul were revealed in their yellowish-green glory.

"And what temptation be you offering to persuade me to consider such an superfluous request? Swag?" He drawled across the words, not allowing the sword a moment's reprieve from its threatening menace.

"He's my son. I'm pleading with you as a man of honor." Laughter assailed his ears; the Raider through back his massive head, which was more skull than features, howling like a wolf to the moon.

"Honor? Can't recall the meaning of the word." His grip tightened on the sword, the Raider's face became an unholy mask of determination as the blade, once cold as ice, became heated with his fury. Morrisey squeezed his eyes shut, his hand grappled behind his back as he patted his son's hand reassuringly in his last moments of life.

"Enough!" the silent companion of the Raider growled from the shadows. His blade, a thick cutlass was drawn and the threatening sword was cowed with a clatter to the ground.

"None of this was part of the agreement. As I recall, we all took part of it, and you signed your name to that bit of parchment as well. Remember what happens to those what break tide with the Code…"

A great hush fell; even the sounds of the ensuing battle outside the Captain's quarters had muted the piercing screams of dying men in order to better hear the Raider's pronouncement.

"I propose a trade…Quarter for yourself and your son in exchange for the holds of swag ye be carrying."

Morrisey considered the proposal, and though he could feel Phillip shake his head in disgust at the deal, his lips spoke of their own accord:

"Done."

Smiling, the Raider retrieved his fallen sword, his eyes cold with hatred for the merciful interloper.

"Lessen you want to find yourself a warm place in the brig, I suggest next time ye be keeping to your own business. Consider this your last warning…" The Raider's attention turned expectantly to Morrisey, who was hastily retrieving the chest filled with gold doubloons, gems and other precious valuables from beneath his desk.

"Come to find it weren't too bad. Knew you could be persuaded to be agreeable when ye recalled the measure of value: there be no limit to what a man may sacrifice for the safety of his flesh and blood. Now, how about that gold…"


	8. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 **

Sunlight streamed through the open window; white curtains edged with finely woven lace engaged in a lively jig at the encouragement of the sea's salty breath. Longingly, Jack's eyes turned to the window; a brilliant glimmer of cerulean peeked through the green foliage of the mighty Elm that impeded its sparkle. His legs were restless for the sea; itching for the solid planking of the _Pearl_, the sudden rush of the sails as they became inflated with air, and the ceaseless thrill of adventure that ever beat within his hollow chest. Trapped, dry-docked on land with no end of the shore leave in sight, Jack felt his spirits ebb to a new low. He wasn't meant to be kept in captivity; he was a Sparrow, a bird meant for the freedoms of flight. Worse, there was no end in sight; his wound kept him imprisoned in his bed with shallow breaths and a heart that collided with his ribcage if he managed anything more strenuous than a feeble lift of his arm.

He blew out a lengthy impatient sigh and turned his eyes away from the window. All the wishing in the world wasn't going to bring the sea to his room or him any closer to healing. He'd had to improvise, adapt to his sparsely decorated room, bare and lifeless in muted, neutral colors. There were of course, advantages to his sabbatical from the sea. He convinced his mind there were boons to a lengthy shore leave; the opportunity for example, to hear birdsong other than the harsh cry of the gulls. The third day of his recovery had been spent mentally cataloguing the variations in the twittering, from low to high, all the maddeningly different swells of melody.

Rarer still was the rustle of wind through thick green leaves; peaceable, a lilting lullaby with a libretto stuffed with, if he listened closely enough, the vague poetic reassurance that'd he'd be on his feet, shipshape in a matter of days. His soul took peace in the rustling; flight was his sole course of action. He could not remain in a house in which his tensions with Elizabeth were so thick that it often left a residue of dew on his coverlets when he awoke in the morning.

A sigh seized his chest, making his wound itch and burn, a parallel to the rampaging remorse that enflamed his heart. He'd hardly spoken a harsh word to her in their past; even when she'd lifted his temper to its limit he'd always, narrowly, managed to repress the venom that festered in his mind and nearly spewed from his lips. She was infuriating; it'd been she to wound him most egregiously and yet, when he had reminded her, albeit roughly, of all that had transpired between them she had the gall to limp from the room as though he had viciously attacked her like a tiger slashed through the delicate flesh of a gazelle. Never in the whole of his experience with her, had he ever received the impression that she was not in total control of her actions; that her every word and mannerism wasn't contrived to win in an unseen game of skill. No, her behavior of late, she'd hardly look him in the eye when she brought up his supper on a tray, was all part of her clever methods of deception. He felt remorse for all that had escaped his lips, but he'd not give her the satisfaction of caving to her imperious will.

His arms folded peevishly across his chest as he wedged his back into the permanent alcove it had created in his feather pillow. He winced; his spine collided with an unyielding bulk. Twisting his arm to reach beneath his pillow, he withdrew his weekly ration of rum. The supply never faltered; he spent much of his time envisioning scenarios of how the Turner lad had managed, and always with great speed, to procure a fresh bottle whenever it had run low. It was only the sweet, potency of his healing tonic that made his imprisonment endurable. The lip of the bottle kissed his thirsty mouth, liquid satisfaction dripped down the parched confines of his dusty throat. He prepared to take the first satisfying swallow—the door to his room burst open.

"Jack!" William exploded into the room, a whirling hurricane of frantic energy. He threw his school knapsack into a barren corner of the room. Startled beads of rum glittered brown against the white, barren chin where his beard had once sat, disturbed by the invasion of youth.

"Forget to knock, did we?" He quizzed dryly, using his sleeve to wipe away the rum that had spilt from the bottle in the wake of William's dramatic entrance. The boy made a search of the room and retrieved the small wooden stool, plopping it down at Jack's bedside, heedless of the elder man's desire for the tranquil solitude of silence and sat, his cheeks pinked with exertion. Clearly, he'd run all the way home from the school yard.

"No. I knocked. Twice in fact—why do you hide the bottle underneath your pillow?"

William's query caught the retreating bottle in mid-act. If the boy was running about higgily-piggily then it was inevitable that Elizabeth would be making her rounds soon. Under no circumstances was she ever to learn that he'd been siphoning rum rations contrary to her strictest orders. He'd awoke one morning to find his face clean shaven, absent of the beard he'd had since reaching maturity-- there'd be no telling what parts of his body might fall victim to her cunning shears next!

"And I suppose you're home an hour sooner than usual from the school yard as per your mother's wishes?"

The boy's cheeks flushed further in heated embarrassment. Aha! Caught in the act; he'd overheard Elizabeth chiding William for his lack of scholastic achievement, and though the lad had blamed it on the indifference of the school master to his person, Jack had suspected otherwise.

"You won't tell her, will you?" His eyes were large, made rounder by the threat of betrayal, desperation seeping from every virtuous pore. As the moment passed with the flutter of curtains, he saw in young William, the image of the boy's father, a youthful and endearing ingenuousness of a boy not yet acquainted with the pirate world, a boy who had put the whole of his trust in Captain Jack Sparrow to uphold a promise with honor. Jack's features visibly softened; the lines of ten years giving way to the poignancy of the past. Though he'd not anticipated the boy's interruption, the company was welcome to the overbearing solitude of his quarters and he found that as the week had passed its course at the pace of an unbearable dawdle, he'd come to anticipate the boy's much needed interludes.

"My dear Master Turner, do you not know me at all? Moreover, do you not remember that illustrious tome which binds all scallywag Pirates beneath one solemn creed? The Code specifically states that in circumstances such as these, a pact must be made and it cannot, under pain of death, be broken. It's called the…" He struggled to find a name for the imaginary section of the Code he'd newly created.

"The _Pact of Shipmates_…"

His eyes swept over William's face, eager to ascertain any symptoms of skepticism. The boy's eyes grew very round, and his boyish, slack posture straightened to the regal stance of a king. He was proud!

"What is the _Pact of Shipmates_?" He breathed, his voice imbued with wonderment at Jack's having selected him, he the smallest, least distinguished lad of the schoolyard, as a person in which to enter into the scared _Pact of Shipmates_.

"It's an ancient tradition amongst pirates and scallywags. Once you enter into the pact, you can never reveal your Shipmate's secrets. You may be tortured, find yourself trapped in some dark, tucked away corner with a knife to your gullet," William gasped, his hand reactively leaping to protect his throat, "But the consequences of revealing my secrets are more terrible than you can possibly comprehend…"

That ought to do it; his delivery was heavy-handed, but a lad of ten years, who'd yet to learn the subtleties of manipulation, would believe every word of it. His secret supply of rum would remain safely undiscovered.

"You must never tell. Ask yourself; are you ready to take on that heavy burden?" William nodded without as much as a tremor of doubt, his crooked teeth biting into his lower lip to prevent it from escaping into a growing grin. Furtively, Jack cast a gaze around him and then, extended his hand to the boy, the gravest of expressions casting a shadow across his face.

"We have an accord! Shipmates?" Jack beamed as William nodded so fiercely that his unkempt hair flew into his eyes.

"Shipmates!" he enthused; it was his lucky day! He'd managed to slip away from the school yard unnoticed by prying eyes and he'd made a devil's agreement with the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Now will you please tell me about Captain Kayman and the evil King Herman?" William pleaded; in his desperation, he'd wadded the corners of Jack's bed sheets in his hands.

Skeptical disbelief brought Jack's features to a point. Was this the reason the lad had run all the way home, to hear an almost entirely fabricated story?

"Yes, yes. I'm a man of me word—I'll tell you the story, but the tale is a long one, and in my…delicate condition, I'm likely to become…parched. A restitution of some sort may rectify the problem of course…." Confusion lingered in the boy's eyes.

"Payment…" Jack's eyes darted to the knapsack that William had drug in with him and haphazardly tossed aside.

"Oh! I almost forgot." William leapt up from his stool, and ran over to retrieve his fallen bag. Rather than sorting through it, he turned it upside down and allowed the contents to spill out. Books slammed to the floor, an odd assortment of pebbles clattered and last to make an appearance was a dainty bottle of rum, which he caught with an open palm.

"Rather small-ish, don't you think?" Jack remarked in an off-handed way to stave his disappointment. William shrugged and drew back his arm, prepared to toss it when he reconsidered.

"It was all I could find this week." Eagerly, Jack stretched out his palms like a child waiting to be rewarded with a new trinket. William shook his head emphatically.

"Mum says you're not supposed to have it at all because it is a vile drink." Jack's features fell with irritation. How like her to steal the last joy he had left in the world. "I'll give it to you on one condition—you finish the story today—no more delays."

Blinking, Jack peered at William's cherubic face, hardly believing that he was speaking to the same lad who'd rushed home to hear one of his stories. He felt as though he were negotiating with Barbossa; one day the terms of the negotiation would come back to haunt him. The rum bottle was tossed back and forth between William's two hands in a taunting rhythm as Jack considered the agreement in silence.

"Those are steep terms, Master Turner…but seeing as I'm in no condition to argue said terms, agreed. Where did we leave off last time?" he smoothed the wrinkles of his bed covers, pretending to ignore his companion's high-spirited whoop of triumph as the lad arranged his willowy limbs in anticipation on the narrows stool.

"You stopped right as Captain Kayman had made port, searching for a Buccaneer crew to help him to reach the coast of Florida."

He was relentless; he wanted the story told to him in its entirety and there was nothing that would prevent him from hearing the whole of it. All night he had dreamt of the wondrous words that had been painted on canvas from the lips of a master. He'd almost seen the map comprised wholly of illustrated rings, rotating with into mysterious patterns that led to unseen worlds. Oh to have such a map in his possession!

"The air of Trinidad was thick with spices; golden saffron, hot peppers from exotic Asia Minor, all of it available for his taking…"

William interjected with a small cough.

"You've already told me that part. It ends with his wandering through the thieves market and into the Spanish Tavern…" Though the boy had no notion of the meaning of the word "restitution", he had a quick mind and a long memory.

"Would you like to tell the story then?" Jack's eyes blazed into William's, a silent warning about the constant stream of interruptions. He'd find a way to survive without rum, but he doubted the boy had the same resolution when it came to gratification. Nervously, William shook his head and pressed his lips sealed so as not to interrupt again.

"That's what I thought. The air of Trinidad was thick with spices; golden saffron, hot peppers…Asia Minor…"

Jack's voice faded from William's ears. The bland sickroom walls faded away into the recesses of imagination; he ceased to be insignificant William Turner, third in the line of great sea legends and transformed into the tremendous Captain Kayman, a giant, hulk of a man with a set of wooden teeth and a temperament so fierce all who dared to cross him cowered in the wrath of his swift retribution. He was a master of all he set his mind to, a great wit with the blade.

Boldly, he strolled down the only street that led to the Spanish Tavern. The path was not an easy one; the Thieves Market was a festering cesspool of corruption and menace, what the few conquistadors who lingered in Trinidad termed _"peligroso"—_dangerous. There was nary a man who wandered into the market who escaped with his purse still attached to his belt, fewer still who escaped with their lives.

The whole of the port was surrounded by a thick wall, a fortress meant to keep the barbarian pirates at bay. Instead, it had only trapped the merchants of decay within the fortress walls; they multiplied like roaches until the whole of Trinidad flew the colors of the Jolly Roger.

Light did not dare to tread down the narrow street; thick woven screens hung over head to obscure the activities from those residents unfortunate enough to call the space above the market their home; he'd reached the outskirts of the Thieves Market.

Stalls of knives and pistols, of every shape and variety rested against woven, woolen blankets. Merchants refused to approach him with their wares; they knew him to be unlike the other pirates who frequented the market. Thick chains rattled to his left; Kayman had no notion of their use, except for the tell-tale screams of a desperate man that followed the deafening clatter.

Peddlers dressed in frayed garments, gathered at one stall, each taking deep whiffs of perfumed smoke from an elaborately bejeweled bottle, their frighteningly yellow skin, stained by years of sun and tobacco cast them with a sinister pall. He saw a flash of shadow, larger than the scurrying of the rats that scattered in his wake. He was being followed, stalked by two groups of men on his right and left flanks, who traced his movements in the shadowy lanes that paralleled the main thorough faire. Kayman's hand tightened around the handle of his trusted pistol; the tavern, _La Guerra Terrible_ was close.

His ears were assailed by the strains of a whining wooden lute and the lightest touches of an out of tune whistle. Raucous laughter, the thud of fists to solid chins grew to frenzy as the door of the tavern came into sight. Kayman paused outside the elaborate carving of _'taberna'_; the word appeared to have been carved by the knife of an unruly patron, rather than under the hands of a skilled wood worker. His eyes traced the rough letters as his hand dug into the lining of his coat. He'd sewn the map into the lining of his coat to keep it safe from the pick pockets who lined the market place to take a foolish man unaware; it was fortunate that he was not a fool. Two steps into the market, and he'd felt a dozen hands make a disappointing search through his coat pockets.

He unfurled the thick, reedy papyrus and traced his fingers around the rotating rings that would lead him to a fortunate fate most men only dreamed—his fingers, adorned with treasures from around the globe rotated the map's rings until they aligned to show the path to his heart's greatest desire--all he needed was a crew. With a heavy foot, he kicked open the tavern door with such force that it thundered against the opposing wall. Pirates halted their attacks, their knives poised mid-air, furious at the unanticipated interruption from a sinister stranger. To maintain their attention and to earn their respect, he withdrew his pistol and fired one shot into the air. The superfluous action stemmed the bitter diatribes and cast the room in uneasy silence.

"Twenty pieces of silver to every man what makes his mark to join me crew…," he announced to the baffled, semi-permanent residents of the tavern. His words were greeted with withering disdain, curled lips, and the men drew their knives to throw at him in punishment for interrupting their debauchery.

"_Basura-_--you already owe most of the room twenty pieces of silver for your other failed ventures," one man spat in a thick Spanish accent, throwing a knife at Kayman's feet for emphasis.

Undaunted, he pulled that particularly surly sailor aside, a man known to him only as '_Pedro Murriendo'_. When the rest of the room had returned to their frivolities, Kayman revealed his prized possession: the ancient Chinese map that would lead them to eternal life and wealth.

"_Madre de Dios! El agua de vida_? " Pedro shook his head and backed away from the map as though the parchment, and its Captain had developed the plague.

"_Señor, usted está loco_!" he exploded in Spanish, so loudly that it attracted the momentary attention of the other revelers. "_Es Locura_!" Staggering away to fortify himself with drink, Pedro fixed the Captain with a final piercing stare that gave his answer. Kayman would find no able-bodied crewmen in the _taberna. _Dejected, Kayman turned to continue his quest; there were other unsavory taverns ripe for the gathering of recruits.

"Fool!" a voice hissed in his ear. Kayman felt the jab of a pistol into his kidney. He did his best not to wince as he raised his hands to assure his attacker that he had no intention of drawing his weapon. The persuasive fire-arm poked and prodded him into walking to a dimly lit portion of the tavern, obscured by large, leafy exotically shaded crimson flowers. Kayman turned round, to face the glowering features of his former first mate, who was livid in his indignation.

Kayman grinned; Manuel Villalobos did not take kindly to those who sundered his attempts of treachery. That Kayman had stolen the map from beneath his hooked nose had wounded his former acquaintance's fragile ego.

"Do ye have any notion of what it is yur holding in your hands? There be men about who'd kill for that map." Villalobos cast a nervous glance about the room.

"If ye be looking for a crew and a ship, I'd be willing to offer me services for…sixty percent of yur plunder. Ye need men ye can trust with yur life…"

Kayman's smile deepened as he pushed the pistol aimed at his heart away with the tip of his index finger, tracing its length as he gave the unholy proposal some thought.

"I'd sooner trust the devil. You'll settle for twenty five. I haven't forgotten that you've stolen my ship…twice." Villalobos' weathered features lifted into a hint of a smile.

"Borrowed without permission--I'll gather the crew—incidentally, I'd be a mite cautious of whom ye show yur bloody chart to, the Northerners are about and King Herman ain't forgotten that he's lost another year on his quest and added another to his life line. Wouldn't want ye to found with a knife in your back." Kayman's eyes narrowed to slits. If his former first mate's warning was honest, unlikely, he had no choice but to trust Villalobos and the crew who had thrice mutinied upon him.

"Odd, I had the distinct impression there already was…" Kayman stepped closer so that his words would be heard by Villalobos alone. He drew his pistol and malevolently tucked beneath his first mate's chin.

"If you so much as think if only but for a moment of crossing me, again, so help me you'll be getting your share, savvy?"

Abruptly, Jack's story halted, impeded by a pair of boots that unceremoniously collided with the wall downstairs. He recognized the rhythm, the pattern of her entrance as she returned home from her shop in the heart of the city every evening, exhausted but with a glow of satisfaction that lit her features. He'd not had the opportunity to see her shop first hand, but made the mistake in asking William about it one day. The answer he'd received on the subject had been interminable enough to make him feel as though he had seen the shop and been a regular customer for years.

"Go on!" William pleaded, wondering if Villalobos and Kayman would put aside their differences to find the famed _Agua de Vida_ but Jack's mind appeared far away. His heart had given a strange jerk at the sound of the angry collision of the boots, almost as though the wall had been a substitute for one of his beating organs, and he wasn't certain which one.

"Captain Sparrow?" William took the sleeve of Jack's shirt between finger and thumb, tugging roughly to get his attention.

"What? Oh, yes, the story…" Jack cleared his throat abruptly.

"Your mother's returned boy, are you certain you wish to be caught in here?" He'd always been a man capable of multiple tasks; while his mouth was rambling off a coherent story, his mind drifted to other avenues of thought, often entirely unrelated to the story. While he'd been creating the world of Captain Kayman, he had been, reluctantly weighing the best course of action to take in his relations with Elizabeth. He was a matter of days of returning to the sea, and he had a choice. Either he could continue to spend his time lashing out at her like the whip of the bosun wing his temper to get a hold of his more rational mind, or he could make amends, a shaky treaty so that the rest of his recovery would not be spent tormenting his mind over all the embittered words that had slipped from the vice-like clench around his heart. Preferring rum to the sensation of feeling the need to guard his loins whenever she chanced to enter his room, he chose the latter, but only on the proviso that she initiated the civilities. If she favored him with one of her frozen stares that rivaled the Sirens in its ability to turn a sailor to stone, as she had every day during the course of the week, he'd not take responsibility for his snarling rebukes.

"Yes, it is my mother. How did you know that?" William stared as though he were a strange witch, who had managed to predict the future. His ears were fixed on Elizabeth's progress, a journey that he aurally observed every day to pass the time, finding her routine strangely comforting.

"From what I can hear the creaking floors afforded me the intimate knowledge of her location at all times. At the moment, she's wound her way into the kitchen. As is her habit, she'll make her way to the squeaking pump in the yard, splash cool water on her dirty cheeks before she mounts the stairs. You need to learn to sharpen your ears, boy." William's jaw went slack, and then shut abruptly like a gate on a hinge. His eyes narrowed to perceptive slits.

"Have you been taking notes? Why do you care where she is and what she does so much?" The accusation hung on the air, causing the warning tingle of his senses to flair; the lad was on the cusp of discovering a very nasty cache of bottled secrets.

"I don't care." Jack spoke a little too quickly and with a defensive air to his voice that made his three word sentence utterly unconvincing.

"You know what she'll say if she finds you in here with me. She'll ask questions…terrible questions too…such as, why are you not still in the school yard…hope you're prepared…" Jack's voice was low and cool. Purposefully, he kept his eyes away from William's unable to bear that the lad's all-seeing eyes might reach into the bottom of his soul. The lad stiffened defensively as the truth in his words hit home. His head swiveled around on his neck, as he considered where he might be able to seek refuge.

"Too late, too late! She's on the stair!" William whimpered in a panic, leaping off the stool and nearly knocking it over in his haste to escape. The lad's alarm at the approaching footsteps, contrasted by the premeditated calm of the Captain might have been comic, had the boy's distress not brought him to the verge of tears.

"Sit!" Jack hissed in a voice that brooked no argument. Like an obedient puppy, William dropped onto his stool, his posture stooped in guilty defeat.

"Act natural!" Jack ordered from the corner of his mouth, watching as William went from slouched dejection to the straight-backed posture of a militant soldier. Jack rolled his eyes to the back of his head in exasperation; clearly the boy had much to learn about the subtle art of deception.

"That's what you'd call natural? Round your shoulders---that's a good lad—stop grimacing like you're a gargoyle who's got a secret. You'll give us away." She passed by his room; her step paused at the door as though she were considering whether she wished to brave his snide and sometimes ruthless comments and perhaps as though she was building up an arsenal of her own.

Her step lingered as she passed the room again as though she'd been entranced to a stand-still at the enthusiasm of her son's voice. Or something else entirely…He had the distinct impression that she knew of William's being a Rum Runner, and that she was always attempting to catch one or both of them in the act of trading. Her endless suspicion drove an ungenerous wedge through his heart. After all that he had done for her, all the times that he had proven his fealty like a lowly peon to a Queen, she still had the gall to ridicule him with her doubt.

Jack turned to meet William's expectant gaze and realized that he'd indulged in his silent thoughts for far too long. He felt the slow stirrings of a grin lifted to his features; he'd finish the story for William, though it would not be wholly accurate to the events that surrounded Captain Kayman's exploration to find the Fountain of Youth and he'd repay Elizabeth's mistrust with a few sharp remarks of his own.


	9. Chapter 19

_A/N: Thanks for your kind feedback, everyone! Please continue letting us know what you liked or disliked about our writing :)_

**Chapter 19**

Jack's voice reverberated clearly through the door, a ghost of the richer voice of his father; he was orating, making a show of telling a story as though even the walls were listening. Typical; Jack was ever the silver-tongued prince of the stage whenever a woman was involved. More than likely, unsuspecting, ever gullible Nell Maloney had fallen to his wiles.

Elizabeth's mind flashed to when she too had been wooed by his well-skilled tongue. The sun had set the sea a flame with pinkish hues as it dipped to its final resting place. They'd started a fire, large and high, warmed with the ashes of fragrant palm branches on a balmy Caribbean night. He'd spoken then; words of what his ship, the dazzling _Black Pearl_ - her mind gave a jerk and she altered her thinking - what any ship meant to its Captain: freedom in its purest, unadulterated state. She unleashed a wistful sigh; too often of late, as she and Jack were hardly on what anyone would call speaking terms, she revisited that glorious night ruled by the time-wizened stars. The light of the fire had danced in shadows across his face, first revealing the straight bridge of his nose, next the shinning of his dark eyes as they raged with a pirate's pride.

They'd sung together the oldest of forbidden sea shanties as they danced around the flames in a pagan dance ritual of their new found solidarity. They'd been surrounded by intrigue, the threat of danger nearly cut like a knife, but none of it mattered that night; they'd suspended reality and in doing so, found a blissful moment of peace amongst the interminable chaos.

His voice recalled her from her revelries, away from the heat of their fiery past and into the bleak, chilling remnants of their future. Her shoulders heaved with a sigh she could not express; his cool demeanor had wounded her more than she cared to admit, left her feeling as though her heart were ripped from her chest. She shuddered openly at the comparison, her mind drawn back to another bleak day where paralysis had nearly taken her. With Herculean effort, she pushed the memory away, the unuttered screams, Will's frozen body lying prone in the rain. No, there were other matters to attend to than the burbling recesses of memory. Jack Sparrow had duped her with the most egregious of all his past schemes; she'd been deluded into believing that they'd held a tenuous friendship. The question had always stood in her mind, whether he'd ever truly forgiven her for her betrayals, and she'd received her answer in a stern dousing of her deepest hopes. His biting words had incited sadness, bitter acceptance and had at last given way to rage.

Snatches of words caught her attention: "vagabond" bounced through the walls, brightly skipping down the stairs. Intrigued, Elizabeth leaned her ear against the door, hoping to catch a breath of what Jack was speaking of, expecting his lower qualities, and Nell's infectious giggle.

"First mate Villalobos and his Captain had gone to gather their crew of rabble, which had scattered to the four winds of the Earth in search of the one thing dearest to a pirate's heart…"

Nervously, Jack snapped his fingers at William, pointing at the rum bottle that sat stupidly clutched in his hand, another symptom of the conspiratorial air between them. He opened his hands to catch the bottle, but the boy seemed to hesitate—he didn't want to readily abandon his leverage. Insistent, Jack's eyes bugged in desperation; his fingers flicked open and closed as the worn brass knob squealed at Elizabeth's grip. Masking a yelp, Will flung the bottle guiltily from his hands, as though he did not want to be caught with the contraband.

Relieved, Jack tucked the bottle behind his pillow and settled into the folds of his bed with what he hoped would appear to be an utterly innocuous expression on his face, with the exception of the beads of perspiration, which he'd excuse as being the result of fever.

"Treasure." William's eyes were round, his eyes nervously stealing toward the pillow cache, and the door, which popped open at a crack with a protesting 'creak' that sent shivers down his spine.

Jack shook his head, appearing disappointed at the boy's lack of foresight. "You don't listen do you? Wenches, Master Turner—salty wenches in fact. Pirates are lured often to their death…" Jack enunciated the last so that she might hear through the door without straining her ears. Though he'd been wary of her company, his regret over the harshness of his words had won over the harsher sentiments and he found a familiar sensation had taken its place—the overwhelming desire to provoke the harsh fires of her temper.

"…by the appeal of a saucy wench with fire in her eyes and unadulterated lust in her heart." He could see that his speech, which was more for the benefit of Elizabeth than her son, had confused the boy. He avoided her burning gaze as she planted her shoulder into the frame work of the door, a grin, which had been absent in recent days, twitching at the corners of his lips.

"What does 'lust' mean?"

Rolling his eyes, Jack sealed his lips in a refusal to elaborate the definition of the word 'lust'. He thought to lie about the definition, but as he caught the gleam of horror in Elizabeth's eyes, he was struck by another, infinitely more promising idea.

"Ask your mother," he dismissed with a sniff; Elizabeth huffed in dramatic exasperation indicating she had no intention in engaging her son in a vocabulary lesson.

His grin deepened and his mood improved, Elizabeth would be peppered with questions from William all evening and for the bulk of the next day. He couldn't wait to see her dance around the questions he knew would irrefutably disturb her otherwise ordinarily calm composure.

"What does that have to do with Captain Kayman and his quest?" William inquired impatiently, sensing that Jack's mind had gone astray from the original intent of their deal. Elizabeth watched the exchange intently; William was so enraptured with the story that he hadn't noticed her presence and indeed, had eyes for no one but Jack Sparrow. Her brows drew down with worries, recognizing in her son, a familiar worship that led to a destructive path. It would have to be addressed---William smiled eagerly, his teeth puncturing his lower lip—a sign of intent concentration. Her expression softened; his face rarely took that shape any more; child-like, enthusiastic. He'd been grave of late, nothing at all like the other boys of Shipwreck City.

"Why nothing! And everything--you see Master Turner, a pirate is nothing without at least six wenches at his side at every port he makes. That's what makes him a pirate; it runs deep in his blood. Myself, being a man of modest means, I like to collect at least three on a string in every port, like pearls in a necklace."

William nodded slowly, still not entirely convinced that Jack's deviation had a purpose. Elizabeth's brows drew down to their perturbed state as her lips indignantly sputtered into action.

"What do you collect them for, Jack?" The wry corners of her lips turned upward, though she had the decency not to gloat in her moment of triumph. She'd succeeded in asking him a question that he had the good sense not to answer in front of the boy. He was willing to corrupt William to a point—the rest he'd allow to occur naturally through his own eye opening discoveries.

Lightly she touched William's shoulder and pointed for him to sit on the corner of Jack's bed, commandeering, in true pirate fashion, the only stool in the room for herself. He shifted uncomfortably beneath his bed covers; it'd been easier to carry the lavish tale with the safety of the door between them.

"Our Captain Kayman," he raised his voice in volume to emphasize that he had no intention of taking her obvious bait. He continued the story as though she'd never made her presence in the room known, "went in search of his missing crew, who had gone to a…" The lad was certainly familiar enough with the terminology of pirate stories to know the word brothel but given that Elizabeth was present, he felt the word was too tame for her ears. He wanted to shock her, to send her running from the room, condemning him all the while for his vile wickedness. Sensing the direction of the story from a familiar gleam that made his dark eyes seem brighter, Elizabeth hastened to interrupt, her face a mask of suspicion.

"Forgive me, Captain Sparrow, but what story have you been telling my son, exactly?"

Jack, who had kept his eyes focused solely, save for a few furtive glances, on William's naïve features since Elizabeth had entered the room, dared a mocking stare. "Don't tell me in all your dedicated years of research and study of pirate lore that you've never once heard the tales of the infamous Captain Kayman…"

Elizabeth shook her head emphatically and favored him with a crook of her brow. She'd read every pirate story that had ever existed; the voracious appetite for stories hadn't been satisfied in her childhood, there was, on occasion, the latest volume of tales that set upon her night stand for perusal.

"They went to an auction, but it was unlike any other auction they'd been to before. Furniture, livestock, even slaves, they'd all seen before…" Jack's expression darkened as his voice trailed off into the depths of his musings, but with a shake of his head, he recalled his mind.

"This auction was unique for they bartered wenches of every variety, a long line chained together as far as the eye could see. They were captives from ships crossing from England, inhabitants of Trinidad who'd found themselves at a loss to pay their taxes. Kayman's men could pick and choose wenches that were tailored to their various tastes—slender, stout, short of limb, long of limb…missing limb… ancient, beautiful, repulsive…" He listed the attributes on his long, ringed fingers.

"Repulsive, aren't wenches meant to be rather beautiful?" William's question brought a faint hint of color to his cheeks, and he had difficulty meeting Jack's keen, all-seeing gaze.

"You've met a fair wench or two I see. Your bonny lass, does she have a name?"

William's chin jutted defiantly and he met Jack's prying stare with a cool gaze of his own. It was a matter he preferred not to discuss in front of his mother. His haughty expression and his unwillingness to divulge his personal interest in wenches recalled Jack's memory to the day he had taunted the boy's father about a certain Miss Swann. His eyes darted to Elizabeth, who was studying his face as though she were preparing to load another calculated shot into her verbal cannon.

"You're saying that some pirates might prefer a repulsive wench?" William interjected shrilly; it seemed that there were some topics which even the boy was keen to avoid. Jack snorted a chuckle at William's ability to dance around the tender subject of his heart with a neutral question.

"Why yes, I suppose you might phrase it that way. Captain Kayman, however, was not like other pirates. He would never select his wenches at every port, and he was unique in that they were always the ones to hand select him. When he arrived at the auction, every last wench in the room was prepared to throw themselves at the handsome Captain's boots--some of them did…"

William cast Jack with a wary expression; there was incongruence in the story.

"But you said that Captain Kayman had wooden teeth with a fierce face that not even his own mother could love."

Elizabeth smirked in triumph, gloating as she crossed her legs demurely at the ankle and folded her hands on her lap. She'd hardly spoken two sentences and already she'd won the war.

"Repulsive is in the eye of the beholder. Our Captain Kayman had a varied taste in women, as suited to his singular disposition and zeal for life—I believe it was said that Kayman found one particular breed of wench most revolting—the bitter shrew, with a tongue so sharp that it doubles as a blade when she nags. He loathed a skeletal figure and a woman whose sole purpose in life was to bring him to his knees with her frigid cruelty. I've been told that particular breed is rare…"

Elizabeth shifted visibly on the stool, her cheeks flaming with the revealing elements of temper. He couldn't even tell a tale without taking an ungenerous, rather vicious swipe at her!

"Ah yes, now I remember Captain Kayman. He was a cripple; an invalid with little strength to lift his arms, let alone to lift them to embrace a wench. They say that much of his life he was bed ridden—something to do with the absence of his heart. Or was it his mind…I don't recall. Oddly enough, he found himself at the mercy of an enemy, a woman not unlike your description, Captain Sparrow…" Her voice was low and brittle, bubbling with anger that she fought to keep contained.

"Absence of mind!" Jack scoffed bitterly, unable to prevent the words from slipping past his lips. It was hardly his fault that he was an invalid. At least he'd picked on elements of her character; she fought their verbal sparring like….his shoulders drooped. Like a pirate - he ought to have been more prepared.

Silently, William rose from his seat, feeling as though he were an intruder in a stranger's house hold as he tip-toed noiselessly from the room.

Elizabeth's eyes never left Jack's stony face as he managed a strangled reprimand.

"A cripple? Bed ridden?" His voice grew in volume and he struggled to keep himself in check. "I have thus far, been a patient man, Lizzie, but this time you've gone too far. You know very well that if I wished to leave this bed I could. It has been at your constant…," he struggled for a word; Elizabeth evenly provided it for him:

"Shrewish nagging? If you've the strength to prove my sharp tongue wrong, then please, do so without delay. Show me that you're capable of getting out of bed. If you're capable of that feat, I might be more inclined to believe the eventual return of your wits…"

Her frame was rigid with anger and so was her voice, though confident with the knowledge that she had temporarily won the match of verbal sparring. If he did not have the predisposition to despise her, he might have seen that her fierce demeanor was born of affection, but he was too stubbornly convinced of her defects.

Determined that Elizabeth should not have the last word, Jack through back his twisted bed covers and planted his feet firmly on the floor. The sharp activity jarred his wound, causing it to throb painfully, but he ignored it. His pricked pride had been the greater aggravation.

"You know, Lizzie, I can't help but wonder…," he panted exhaustedly, gripping the rounded wooden knob of his bed post to hoist his beleaguered body up right. His legs were unsteady, his knees were like jelly and it was only the sheer desire to prove her wrong that kept him from wobbling to and fro like a new born calf.

"If your reaction to my story isn't sprung from some other motivation…" Elizabeth halted at the door and turned to face him with an accusing frown that, unless he was mistaken, contained a tint of fear. He'd struck a nerve; the point he'd won encouraged him to abandon the post that he clung to for dear life and try his hand at walking. His legs trembled as though filled with stampeding ants; his feet tingled from lack of use as he took two staggering steps forward.

"And what motivation might that be? I don't think you of all people can make a claim to know me well at all." She repelled the urge to escape, though every instinct in her body was urging her to race from the room.

Jack's fledging steps, infantile in their progress halted as though her words had created a wall that effectively impeded his wake. He'd observed her enough from afar in their sordid adventures together to know her better than she knew herself.

"No? Judging from the pink of your cheeks and the speed of your speech, I know you well enough to wager that you're unmistakably jealous…" He advanced another two solid steps, in a stride that resembled his typical robust swagger. Three more precisely chosen strides and he'd overtake her at the door.

"Jealous?" Elizabeth spat, twisting the knob as Jack tread closer. She pulled the door open a crack; Jack put his hand out and stopped it, his breathing labored as the weight of his leaning pushed it closed.

She spun around to face him, her eyes flashing dangerously, her teeth grinding into her skull as she nearly pressed her nose to his. The strength of his gaze as it searched her face was too much; she kept her eyes planted firmly on his lips. "Me! Jealous of your revolting harem? Never!"

Why, it was degrading, ludicrous even that he might think so! A man with women strung along like a line of pearls was hardly worth her esteem let alone a tenth of her jealousy.

"Three wenches hardly constitutes a harem and that's not what I was insinuating---though it comes as no surprise that your mind ventured to that realm first."

The remark knocked her back against the door, her eyes wide as she tried to surmise how she might be envious of him. He grinned at her; his dark brows lifting as high as the corners of his smug mustache.

"I was in fact referring to that scurrilous green-eyed monster which has struck again leaving you envious of the adventures you denied yourself while you languish in your gilded cage. My stint in this prison is temporary, I can leave whenever I like and I shall. You, on the other hand … - well, there's always the monthly shipment of peanuts to keep you occupied…"

"You're despicable," she rallied, taken aback by the way his words had been a piercing blow to her heart. Her situation at Shipwreck Cove was idyllic; she did more than organize her store.

"Sticks and stones, luv." She'd called him despicable once before; it seemed that her opinion of him had not altered much. His heart recalled another day, a time when she had told him of her faith that he was a good man. He longed for that day, again, the smile a simple sentence from her lips had brought to his face had made his cheeks ache with pride.

"You're in my way."Her bellicose voice echoed through the sickroom, tyrannical and fierce, as though she commanded her crew during the heart of a storm. Jack's expression was a study in neutrality, though she recognized a gleam of triumph in his dark eyes. He made no effort to move his arm, keeping her trapped between the freedom the open door would provide and the undeniable warmth of his body as it hovered close to hers.

She wanted to rail at him for his perceptive words that had summoned a common thread of her thinking; she'd never regain the life she once had, the peace of heart she'd felt at the open mouth of the sea as it glittered with all the wonders of the ancient world. No, he was manipulating her. She was still the same woman, unyielding and powerful—in her new life; she'd achieved everything she'd ever aspired to…hadn't she?

"Tut-tut, you'd raise your voice to an ailing cripple? What sort of an example are you setting for young William? As the matter sits, I intend to visit my harem today. So it is you who are in my way…" Jack lifted his hand away from the door, and with a flourish of his wrist pulled it open.

"Ladies first…" He inclined his head with an ironic, pompous bow of his head.

"Oh no, I insist---age before beauty," Elizabeth huffed as she pushed past him, summoning all her strength to resist the urge to slap him.

"Ho, ho!" he retorted sardonically, a delayed attempt at pretending as though her unkind remark about his age had not struck a sour chord. She whirled around to face him as he followed with slower progress behind her, massaging his wound as he walked with arduous breaths.

"As your harem is so extensive, your visit might do both of our spirits some good." Her index finger jammed in between the open slit of his shirt to angrily emphasize each of her words with a violent poke of his chest bone. "I know it will mine, for I'm sure with your substantial charm you can be at no loss to convince one of them to take you in."

His eyes dropped to the pointed tip of her finger, his body swayed unsteadily; the room had grown unbearably hot. He'd assumed it had a little to do with his fury at the way she had twitted him about his age, but the sudden heat was accompanied by a steadily irritating buzz in his ears. He took two steps backwards to absorb the impact of her finger. He felt the strangest sensations with each step, as though his legs were comprised wholly of marmalade. All at once they gave way, and he felt his frame collapsing within itself; feet, to knees, a crumbling wall of pirate that landed with a convincing thud against the solid floor. His head collided with the ground, and a tide of black rolled in to cover his vision in darkness.

"Jack!" she screamed as he collapsed into the hall, midway between the door and the stairs in a heap. Good Lord, she'd been bullying him with her finger, and he hadn't the strength to ask her to stop. Her mind tortured her with the idea that he might have died as a result of her unkind comments. Her legs moved, but not quickly enough for her liking. Her movements felt delayed as though there was a force of resistance working against her attempts to reach him.

In a terrified whoosh of skirts, she slid to her knees at his side, dragging his head onto her lap. He was still alive! Elizabeth allowed herself a haggard breath of relief that slowed the well of tears that had lodged in her throat.

His skin had turned to the color of a sheet and his lips were parted as he struggled for air. He was weaker than he'd let on; she'd challenged him too soon. His stamina had not been able to endure both a jaunt of exercise and the strain of her shrewish temper. Her hands drifted from his shoulders to his cheeks, lightly stroking away the calmly beads of perspiration that clung to his skin, remnants of the fever that he had conquered, she had to remind herself, just three short days ago.

Jack's eyes fluttered open, blinking three times before they focused on a near angelic sight above him. Elizabeth looked down on him with disturbed features, panic ragging in her eyes. His cheeks registered the faint tingling, and when the thick cotton that had overwhelmed his mind had cleared, he realized that her cool hands rested on either side of his face.

She looked prepared either to promptly burst into tears, an unheard of vocation for her, or on the verge of scolding him. The two contradictory images amused him to such an extent that he found himself chuckling. Between the two of them, he was closer to tears than she; how could he have done something so feeble as to consent to his body's will to faint? His wound throbbed and he unleashed a short groan.

"It hurts a little doesn't it?" Elizabeth inquired in a gentle voice, free of the temper that had overwhelmed it only moments before.

"The pride or the fall?" he grimaced as his hand massaged the throbbing mass of bandaged strips. Elizabeth shook her head, rewarding him with a faint smile.

"Both." She shifted so that she could sit more comfortably on the floor, her back pressed against the wall.

"We can't go on like this," Jack remarked softly, his eyes wide as he stared at the textured crème ceiling above him. Exhaustedly, Elizabeth's head bobbed in agreement for several moments of silence before she responded.

"Tearing each other to miniature pieces with our ceaseless arguments, in which there is never a clear victor."

He prevented himself from contradicting her; in any matter pertaining to Elizabeth he was ever the unsuccessful challenger in an invisible fight. He'd willing put himself at the disadvantage to see that she won.

"No, luv. I meant we can't go on languishing here on the floor. From the looks of things, your skill with the blade outstrips your skill with the broom. I for one can't run the risk of a little dirt being tossed in with the salt floating about in me wound…"

She parted her lips to protest his accusation regarding the dirty floor, but as she surveyed her handiwork, traces of dirt lingered along the once nearly clean linen of Jack's shirt. Sighing, she realized that the dirt was not all his keen eyes had observed. Oh, she'd never let on that perhaps his observations about her new life had been painfully close to the mark, but it worried her. If he was capable, after only three days of consciousness to see all that he had, what else had he observed?

He grunted, with a struggling effort to pull himself to his feet. Scrambling, Elizabeth jumped up to hers and with hands that wished to aide rather than attack, helped him to stand on his feet. His head swam; when next he'd regained himself, he found her tucked neatly beneath his arm, leading the way back to the comforts of his bed, bearing the bulk of his weight. Though he was inordinately fatigued, he tried to maintain what little dignity he had left by not leaning on her shoulder too heavily.

"I suppose," he groaned as with great concern, Elizabeth helped to lower him onto his bed. He winced as his nerves shot flaming signals to his chest, reminders that he was not yet healed enough to go head to head with the daunting Captain Swann, "we ought to run up a flag of truce then. Form some sort of an uneasy alliance between Captains?"

Elizabeth pulled his blankets up to his neck and moved her hands behind his head to fluff his pillows. Her features had softened and the edge of worry in her brow melted away. Her hands stilled in her work; it was the first time she'd heard him call her Captain in nigh on ten years. The sound was like a soothing balm to her aching heart, and when next she gazed at Jack, her lips burst into a smile that was like sunlight in the way it lit her face.

"Truce," she whispered, her throat tight with emotion. She made a show of continuing to fluff his pillows to block the silly, sentimental tears. Her hands stilled, and she dug behind the bottom pillow. Jack's relaxed features pulled taunt. The rum!

"Where did you get this?" Elizabeth's hand withdrew a half empty bottle of rum from behind his pillow.

"I'll have to try to remember."

Their temporary peace was shattered; displeasure pulled a cloud of disappointment across Elizabeth's once cheerful features. She left with the bottle in hand without another word, leaving Jack torn between confessing and begging for mercy on the bottle's behalf. As he lay with his hands folded across his chest, staring at the ceiling and absorbing the distant rush of the sea, he felt as though he'd sent a comrade to a gruesome, despicable death. He only hoped that when she burned his rum again, she'd have the compassion to empty the bottle first.


	10. Chapter 20

_First of all, I want to apologize for the delay in replying to your kind reviews. At first, my browser wouldn't let me use the "reply"-function for reasons unknown to me, and then, a new job took up most of my time. I hope it's alright with you if I post the replies here in public:_

_**sweet-misery-t**: To borrow a quote by JK Rowling: You shouldn't feel too sorry for him ;) After all, he's no innocent – especially not when it comes to his behaviour towards Elizabeth._

_**Wicked R**: Thanks! We do, too ;)_

_**Akari Kou**: Thanks a lot! You summed it up perfectly: Elizabeth is confused about her feelings for Jack, and his stubbornness doesn't exactly help, either. This is a fun situation to write about, IMHO, because it helps to create a lot of interesting/funny/touching/romantic scenes._

_**DairingDreamer**: Thanks; I am sorry I posted the German version under the same title, but I liked it so much I didn't want to change it … anyway, here's your update:)_

_**Gater101**: Thanks to you! We're glad you're enjoying it so far!_

_Again, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. Your feedback is always welcome :) And now on to Chapter 20!_

xxx

**Chapter 20**

The unsuspecting front door rested peacefully in the afternoon sun, guarding the entrance to the Turner's domicile in all its oak-made strength when the tip of a boot collided with its lower half in an act of gratuitous violence.

He had wanted to kick the door open, make something – anything – pay for the day's unwillingness to surrender to a mighty pirate's wishes, but a low thud, followed by a muffled scream wrought from his dried-out gorge was all the attacker could achieve. The wood resisted the assault without as much as an unobtrusive scratch, unbending and solid as rock, and Will winced in pain, closing his hand around his violated ankle. He had asked himself if his day could get any worse; his wounded appendage throbbed its answer—it could.

Master Pinch had insulted him in any way possible, the door was equally as hostile towards him, and both were disrespectfully unimpressed by his more than eligible fury. He was not only the son of the Pirate King and the most famous Captain on the seven seas, he was a true pirate himself; fierce, an adequate swordsman, and, above all, a force to be reckoned with. He had commandeered the school without firing a single shot, and the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow had inducted him to be a member of the illustrious Pact of Shipmates. There should not have been the slightest quibble about his qualities, and yet, Master Pinch had been so bold as to threaten him.

"_If you come one more time to this class without your Latin verses your mother will be informed."_

The words echoed in his head, the school master's voice as irritating as a parrot's chattering. Latin – _pish_! What was a pirate supposed to do with a language that hadn't been used for centuries? Pirates didn't trouble themselves with an elaborate vocabulary; there was no need to talk when you lived by the strength of your blade.

He would have bet all of his prized possessions that Captain Jack Sparrow had never even opened a book, let alone read one in Latin! Authors bearing strange names like Cicero or Ovid in no way could equal with Jack Sparrow's talent for storytelling.

If he, William Turner, ever met with a pirate like Captain Kayman, the blood-thirsty rogue would surely laugh if he ever caught wind of the fact that a pale, dim-witted school master had once forced him to dissect Latin nouns.

Worse was his indubitable knowledge that nearly every pirate in Shipwreck City would have agreed with him. He knew from a well-informed source that his friend Charlie's father, "Cutlass Jim", thought that Master Pinch and his curriculum were a waste of time and money. Charlie had confided to him that he would leave school as soon as the Raider issue was resolved. According to what he'd told Will the previous afternoon, he intended to join a ship's crew as a cabin boy, incite a mutiny to take over the vessel and become a Captain in his own right. Even a boy who smelled like a herd of pigs was prepared to start his career in piracy while Will was struggled with his school work weighed heavily on his pride, knowing that neither his mother nor father would ever let him abandon his studies.

Surrendering to the school master's eccentricities seemed like a worst-case scenario; worse even than being forced to take a bath more than once a week, but he knew he'd have to bite the bullet in order to escape his mother's temper, worsened, no doubt, by her constant bickering with their unbidden guest.

With spirits sinking faster than a leaky boat during a gale storm, Will entered the house, slamming the door shut in a fruitless attempt to punish it for the impertinence of not giving way to his kicks. One after the other, his boots flew into a corner where his mother would hopefully find them later. He stormed up the stairs, like the parapets of a castle heading for Jack's sick room.

xxx

_She was kneeling above him, her hair falling loose across her shoulders while __his head rested on her lap, her fine-boned hands pressed cool and comforting against his heated skin. "Jack," she whispered, her voice quavering with approaching tears. "Jack, I am sorry!"_

_Her fingertips __caressed his face, a touch light as the sea's softest whisper. His eyes surrendered to a close, savouring being at the receiving end of her compassion. He marvelled at the touch of skin without the rough calluses and bruises he supposed were the price for__a life in the relative freedom of the waves' moody realm. _

"_I__** am**__ sorry," she repeated, drawing nearer to his face. "I am sorry I killed you." He could feel her breath upon his lips when she added: "I am sorry I left you behind."_

"_I know," he breathed, still __exhausted from the unaccustomed strain of standing on his own legs and their verbal sparring, but more at peace with himself than he had been for a very long time. "I am sorry, too." He felt he had to say it, even though he couldn't bring himself to list all the things he knew he should apologize for; the lies he'd told, harsh words he had said and regretted; most especially for all the words that had sprung to his lips but that had remained unspoken. _

"_I should have stayed with you on the Pearl," __she sobbed, her tears running freely down her face. _

"_I should have asked you to." He kissed her, lifting his head so their lips could meet, and he felt he was sipping honey from her mouth, a sweetness he'd never dared to dream of tasting again. Her lips parted on their own accord, begging him to make her his, but before he could comply, something inside him began to stir and he pulled back, still dazzled by the crashing force of their encounter._

It took up all his strength to relinquish his daydream, inspired, no doubt, by Elizabeth's reaction to his humiliating weakness the day before. Though he loathed admitting it, her presence, though changing in shape and colour like the moodiest of seas, caused the strangest sensations within his stomach, ranging from a clenching ache to a fluttering briskness that lingered well after she'd gone.

Of course, it was all completely natural; nothing to fret about. He was a man, after all, and in his present condition, there was hardly anything he could occupy himself with, apart from the distractions his own mind had to offer. He hadn't had a woman for longer than he cared to count, and Elizabeth, despite her quarrelsome personality, was not an entirely unpleasant sight.

She was a little too skinny for his taste, true, and there was no denying that 30 was an age his women ordinarily didn't surpass, but there was something about her sparkling eyes, full lips and even features that captured him, making her the welcome object of his afternoon fantasies.

He wanted to picture what would happen if their kiss deepened, how it would feel if he pulled her on top of him, his hands running across her back and down her sides while her body pressed into his, but thoughts like these would inevitably lead to him indulging in a kind of practice he was not sure he was well enough for, yet. On the other hand, it was probably time to make sure everything was still working, and if his memory served him correctly, Elizabeth wouldn't return before dusk, which meant that he had more than one hour left to do whatever pleased him.

He was about to remember where he'd left off when the door to his room flew open, meeting the wall with a loud bang that thwarted his plans in a thoroughly unceremonious manner.

In the doorframe appeared the small figure of William Turner junior, the air surrounding him so thick Jack would have expected a demon instead of a lad. With a colourful outburst of swear words which Jack recognized as his own favourites, the lad chucked his bag into a corner before planting himself in front of Jack's bed.

In this posture, arms crossed and cheeks flushed with rage, he was a miniature version of his mother—instinctively Jack sank lower, hoping against hope that his cushions would swallow him whole. Clearly, the lad was in bad spirits – very bad spirits indeed – and Jack knew immediately he had no intention whatsoever to be at their receiving end. For a few tense moments, he stared at the small figure, fuming with rage, and found himself wondering what he was supposed to do in a situation like this.

As much as the lad resembled his mother, he was still a child, meaning that it was not advisable to draw a pistol or sword; likewise, he – or rather Elizabeth – wouldn't appreciate the lad sharing his precious rum. At last, he resorted to his favourite defence: Words.

"What, pray tell, makes you deprive a poor cripple of his much desired beauty rest?" he began hesitantly, his fingers clutching the blanket below his chin as if he prepared to hide beneath should the lad's temper get out of hand.

William stared at him then spat out with a tone in his voice that spoke of deepest resentment: "Latin!

He began pacing the room, his hands folded behind his back as if he was contemplating where to corner the Spanish Armada, and Jack couldn't help admiring the fierce determination he found in the boy's demeanour.

He eyed him curiously wondering whether all boys his age behaved thusly or if his mother's influence had produced such an effect when all his misery bubbled out of him in a somewhat longwinded tale, woven with a colourful array of swearwords.

When his tirade ended, Jack thought he'd gathered the gist of what had happened: Apparently, the school master by the name of Pinch was not only a student's equivalent to the Kraken, but also a vile man who expected his guileless pupils to do their schoolwork. In an act of thoroughly justifiable rebellion, William had refused to decline a Latin noun, stating in no uncertain terms that he was a pirate – and piracy had never involved any kind of grammar. After a lengthy debate, Pinch had lost his temper, as happened frequently with the Turner-lad, and had threatened to inform his mother, should he dare the heresy of arriving to school without his work again.

Had it not been for Will's unwelcome interruption of his private musings, Jack would have felt greatly amused by the lad's escapades; if he hadn't known otherwise, he'd never have guessed he was the whelp's son. Though, as he thought about it, it would not have been the first time he'd underestimated Will Turner, husband of Elizabeth Swann who looked at him now through her son's vengeful gaze.

It was an unbearable sight, like looking at a bottle of particularly fine rum he knew to be poisoned; he closed his eyes to avoid the sight for a moment, pretending to be in pain. The throbbing of his wound seemed to intensify with his quickening heartbeat, and he found he needed to come up with a plan to get rid of the boy.

His first impulse was telling him to forget about the homework--go out to play with his friends, it was, after all, exactly what the lad wanted to hear from him. Yet, when he opened his eyes to focus on Will again, he found he couldn't do it. He might have been a pirate without honour, decency or personal hygiene, but feeding an innocent to the dragon was decidedly not among his preferred methods. Contrary to what he'd once told Davy Jones, he wasn't one to carry the weight of his conscience easily, and though Elizabeth's fury might not result in years of service on a cursed ship, he knew from experience that the difference was slight.

With a theatrical sigh, he lifted his voice to speech, hoping that a bit of nonsensical talk would buy him time. "Listen …"

William looked at him expectantly.

"A pirate must carry with him, all the necessary tools for survival..."

"Weapons?" Will interrupted him, on the verge of jumping up and down with excitement. Jack Sparrow, one of the most legendary pirates that had ever sailed the waters of the Spanish Main not only agreed with him but was about to give him a lesson in _real_ piracy.

"Swords? Knives?" He was desperate, seeing that Jack didn't budge. His features brightened and he announced proudly: "I know – a sabre!"

Jack granted him a cabalistic smile, his golden teeth glittering in the sunlight that stole itself through the half-closed curtains, but still he did not give the answer Will was craving. He leisurely drew his digit across his lips before lifting it and announcing with a serious voice: "Latin!"

Will opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it, choosing instead to stare at Jack in disbelief. The blankness of unexpected disillusionment dominated the lad's features, the horror of a fugitive who'd found himself led into a trap by the one person he'd hoped would aide him. Jack Sparrow might have acted like his companion and shipmate, but in truth, he was exactly like all the other adults he knew. His parents, Captain Teague and Master Pinch never took him to be more than a ten year old child. The realization that his newly found partner in crime was no exception cut him to the quick. Adults didn't take him seriously, they lied to him in order to trick him into doing what they wanted; worst of all they thought he was foolish enough to overlook their carefully plotted modes of betrayal. The corners of his mouth curled downwards, and for a moment, Jack feared steam might protrude from his ears. Clearly, the lad was not easily manipulated.

"Tut, you don't believe me," he scolded, the machinations of his mind working feverishly to outwit his surprisingly clever opponent. "But I swear on pain of death, down me weasley, black, bilges that every word is true." He placed two fingers lightly above his still throbbing wound, lifting his other hand to show he wasn't cheating while he took great pains to cross his toes. Will continued to remain unconvinced. He cocked his head and a thin line appeared across his forehead, doubt visible in his brown eyes that glittered with reproach.

"Shipmates, remember?" Jack smiled despite the headache he felt approaching somewhere behind his heavy eyelids. His face was shining with perspiration, and if Kate Hueng had been present, she would have recognized the first symptoms of returning fever. Suddenly, he very much wanted to be on his own in a darkened bedroom, curtains drawn and windows shut so no sound could permeate his exhausted hearing. Forgotten were all thoughts of physical merriment; he didn't feel like he lift his head up, let alone anything else, but Will, wallowing in his own misery, was blind to his sufferings.

"What's a pirate got to do with Latin?" he asked, his eyes speaking his scepticism.

"You may think duels are won by the blade –," Jack said, ignoring the throbbing pain behind his forehead, "which is a common misconception many of my most esteemed fellows have paid for with their lives. Even the best swordsmen might be outwitted by a well-placed word, brought forward at the _opportune_ moment. You of all people must know that a tongue can be sharper than the blade, what with your experience with your …"

Will swallowed hard when he discerned the unmistakeable swipe Jack had taken at his mother; he'd observed the bitterness between them, and though he was far too innocent to understand all that it entailed, he found he didn't want this man – a stranger – to talk about his mother in that way.

He opened his mouth in protest, but Jack was quick to silence him with a casual wink of his hand. His head was on the verge of bursting, and he feared that if he allowed the lad to turn their discussion into verbal sparring, he'd catch the shorter straw. "Aha, so now you see: the art of provocation is a very ancient, adamantly guarded secret, only revealed to the most worthy of Pirates – members of the Pact of Shipmates."

William's features, once belligerent with anger at Jack's ungracious swing towards Elizabeth softened in understanding. Jack hadn't intentionally meant to insult his mother—it had all been part of his ingenious method of instruction. He was on the verge of cracking a smile when he was struck by a counter thought. "Well, I could insult you in English, couldn't I? After all, that's what you just did." Will replied defiantly, leaving Jack with no doubt at the seriousness of his words.

'_Bugger_!' Jack's mind did a dance of fury while outwardly, he appeared calm and collected. 'Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!' The lad was a worthy opponent indeed. Regrettably he, the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, was by no means in any condition to win the fight; the shock of yesterday's shameful defeat rendered his bones shaky, and he wasn't sure whether his already bleeding pride would sustain another injury of loss to a surly ten year old.

"Why does it have to be Latin?" Will went on, his words merciless daggers to Jack's fading powers of defence. _Oh_, if his head would only allow him to think clearly, make use of his wits and drive the boy away with as much as a swift parry of his tongue … Unable to suppress a pain-filled groan, he pressed a hand to his forehead and whispered the only reply his mind could come up with: "Tradition. You see, most parts of the Code as devised by the Captains Morgan and Bartholomew are phrased in Latin." Jack sent a silent prayer to the skies that his father wasn't incidentally lurking around the corner. From what he knew, the Code largely consisted of cooking recipes including rum. If Captain Teague caught word of his blasphemy, he probably wouldn't hesitate to shoot him, relation or not.

"Really?" Will asked, obviously impressed.

"Why else would my much beloved father allow the presence of a landlubber like this schoolmaster of yours in his precious city?"

Will startled; he decided, after much deliberation, that Jack Sparrow's words as much as he disliked them rang forward with truth. He knew from hearsay that Captain Teague had shot more than one man for putting the Code into question, and considering the man's temper, he saw no reason to doubt the stories. After all, it had been the Keeper of the Code himself who had taken his mother's side more than once when it came to the precarious subject of schoolwork. With a gulp, he realized he could consider himself lucky Captain Teague was nowhere near enough to have born witness to his ranting … Only the tiniest, infinitesimal spec of doubt remained, and before he took the pain and did his schoolwork, he had to make certain he hadn't fallen into a trap: "That means that you speak Latin as well?"

"_Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio,_" Jack said, almost unconscious from the pain hammering against his chest and head. "Now, be a good lad and do your work. Let me sleep in peace."

xxx

_The small, dark-haired boy__ sat under the heavy mahogany table in the library, listening to Master Torrence's never-ending repetitions on the five declensions existing in Latin. He came here every day, whenever the young master received his daily lessons, mostly to roam through the numerous books; some of them as big as his upper body, while others had pages covered with the dust of centuries. Except for the old man who was rarely at home, no one entered the library and the ten year old enjoyed being on his own. Not that he wasn't on his own for most of the time, anyway. The vast mansion's inhabitants treated him like he was invisible, which, no doubt, was the result of his constant silence. He knew that some of them thought him stupid because they'd never heard him utter a single word, and once, he'd heard Mister Eulard, the cook, call him a "filthy gypsy". He had no idea what a gypsy was, but it didn't sound particularly friendly, and he supposed a gypsy had to be someone akin to a criminal._

_H__e'd been close to opening his mouth, declaring that his mother had been a Spanish princess and his father a mighty Pirate Lord, but when he considered it, he found that the issue wasn't worth breaking his silence. His parents were dead, meaning he could never go home again. That was what he'd been told, and he saw no reason to doubt the words. The old man would never lie to him, he knew as much, just as he knew that he didn't think him stupid or a gypsy. Those who liked him – like Marjorie, the limping kitchen maid – liked him mute, and so he'd entered the library as silent as ever, took his seat and prepared to listen to whatever Master Torrence would tell them today._

_At first__, the young master had complained about the strange boy's presence, but unable to act against his father's will, he'd finally accepted that Jack, too, should learn about Algebra, History, Geography, French and Latin; which was quite a lot for a stupid gypsy. The boy who should have been his brother but hated him more than anything in the world, was horrible at Latin. He always claimed himself unable to learn a language spoken by ghosts, but Jack didn't believe the excuses, considering he was equally bad at French. And French was – as far as Jack knew – the language still spoken in France._

_Today, t__he Latin lesson was as tenacious and tiring as ever. With his only pupil being unable to decline even the easiest nouns, Master Torrence, a tall man with an appearance as stiff as a walking-stick, couldn't proceed and Jack was bored. _

"Res_," said Master Torrence, and the colour of the blonde boy's face sitting opposite him on the table seemed to fade from red to pale, unable to decide whether he should be angry or desperate. "R- re- rei", he stammered. "R-reim-remi, r …"_

"_No__, no, no!" his plagued tutor sighed. "Listen ..:"_

„_Res – rei – rei –rem – re."_

_And to everyone's astonishment – including Jack's –__ the rasping, from long disuse hoarse, voice didn't belong to Master Torrence, but to a little boy sitting underneath the mahogany-made table._

„_You there, boy, come out __and stand here!" Master Torrence pointed to a place right next to the chair of his pupil who seemed paralyzed with horror, but it took almost a full minute for Jack to crawl out of hideout, trembling with fear. He was fully aware that he'd just done something terrible, but it hadn't been intentional. He didn't want to speak – it was as if the words had come out on their own accord, and now he was to be punished. He could probably consider himself lucky if they didn't throw him out, leaving him to starve on the streets …_

„_That was correct!" He heard the unusually soft sounding voice of Master Torrence, but didn't dare to look up. Instead he stared down at his feet, still half-mad with fear."Let's see__, if you can do this as well: amicus."_

_At first, he couldn't believe Master Torrence was __talking to him, but when he lifted his head, hesitantly, he found himself facing an encouraging smile. HE was expected to decline amicus! On many a rainy afternoon spent in the library, Jack had pictured himself sitting opposite the tutor, answering his questions. In his daydreams, he'd even made the usually stern looking tutor smile, and now it was really happening! He was still shaking, but knew it was joyful excitement rather than actual fear. _

"_Amicus," he said. "Amici – amico – amicum – amico."_

"_Bravo! And now __the plural!" Master Torrence was almost laughing with glee; Jack felt his heart beating faster. Appreciation, real appreciation for something he'd said was completely new to him, and in his joy, he didn't even recognize the menacing pair of eyes resting on his scrawny figure._

„_Amici – amicorum – amicis – amicos – amicis." __Though his voice was still feeble and coarse, it seemed to grow stronger and more confident with every word._

„_Ager."_

„_Ager – agri – agro – agrum – agro."_

„_Agri_," Will said with a broad grin on his face.

"_Agri – agrorum – agris – agro - agris_," Jack replied instantly, but without opening his eyes. As fast as he could, Will scribbled down the correct declension, hoping that the scratching of his pen wouldn't wake his unexpected saviour. It was a wonder to him that the obviously sleeping man was doing his work; and all because he'd muttered aloud his own desperate attempts to decline "_res_", which seemed to have protruded into the pirate's dreams. One word left, and the formerly ruined afternoon, would be saved – not to mention his mother's telling-off, which he would fortunately be spared from.

"_Lantitia_,", he said as loud and clearly as he could manage, but this time, Jack's reply stayed out. Instead, he began moving in his sleep, suddenly shook and sat up straight in his bed.

"_Laetitia_!" he declared, his eyes opened wide. "It has to be _laetitia_! Master Torrence would never make such a stupid mistake!"

"Who is Master Torrence?" Will blurted out in surprise, thrown off-guard by the patient's unexpected outburst. "My teacher's name is Pinch, not Torrence, and I believe that Master Pinch makes quite a lot of stupid mistakes."

"No, no, no!! Jack babbled, still caught in his dream. "He never makes a mistake. He knows everything and … Wait!" The absent-minded expression flew from his eyes like an escaping bird, and he looked at Will almost cognizant, as though he still didn't quite understand what was going on. "What are you doing here?"

"N – nothing," Will stammered, feeling caught for no apparent reason. The pirate surely wouldn't know he'd abused his dreams to get his schoolwork done – or would he? Better to take his leave, Will decided, throwing his books and homework into his bag while scrambling to his feet. "I – I was just doing my Latin. R – remember?"

"Yes … I remember," Jack said slowly, his eyes resting on the lad. Will felt he was doing a poor job at hiding his crime, but something about Jack Sparrow's gaze was making him nervous. It was almost as if he saw right through him.

"W-we were talking about it, b-before you fell asleep," he tried again, hurrying towards the door.

"Hmm …"

When he saw the pirate reaching for the rum bottle placed on his nightstand, Will saw his chance. His fingers had clenched around the doorknob when Jack's voice reached him again, stern and wide awake.

""Wait!" It was an order, not a plea, and Will froze immediately. "Come here!"

Slowly, he turned around and obediently walked back to Jack's bedside. To his surprise, he didn't look angry, but rather he was curious, and even a bit amused.

"Strange old world isn't it," the pirate began, his fingers absentmindedly running up and down the bottle's neck. "I just had the most peculiar dream."

Will swallowed hard, sensing the very real threat of discovery.

"I dreamt someone was asking me to decline various nouns – outlandish as it seems, they were Latin nouns! In my dream, it was a teacher by the name of Master Torrence. And then, something really interesting happened." He paused for a moment, looking down at the bottle as if to make sure it hadn't disappeared. "Yes, it was fascinating, because all of the sudden, Master Torrence transformed from a kind hearted school master into a treacherous-hearted sea dragon whose morals were worn on his sleeve. T'was those same flimsy morals what allowed the cow-hearted wretch to abuse a sick man's precarious condition to suit his own blind ambition."

All colour drained from Will's face. Jack Sparrow had him cornered, and there was no way he could ever hope to escape the infamous Captain's fury. His mother had warned him, told him to stay away from the man – and now he discovered that she had been right.

His calm voice and soft smile was far worse than his mother's fury. The man sitting before him was as dangerous as Captain Teague, perhaps even more so, and now he would pay for his impertinence.

"Tell me, Master Turner, would you care to interpret my dream?" he asked, with a smile so broad that Will could count the number of golden teeth in his mouth.

"I," he whispered, "I couldn't say."

Jack clicked his tongue, clearly taking pleasure in the lad's misery. "Odd, you seemed to know pretty well a few minutes ago. Why, you're white a Black beard's ghost boy. Is there something you wish to tell me?"

Will found he desperately wanted to shake his head and run out of the room. If he went straight to his mother's shop and told her everything, maybe she would protect him but he remained where he was, his legs as heavy as if glued to the floor. To his surprise, Jack threw back his head and unleashed a hearty laugh.

"I'm impressed, young William!"

Will gave a violent start, unable to believe his ears. Surely the pirate was tricking him, trying to lull him into false security so he could attack, but Jack Sparrow seemed completely at ease. Instead of withdrawing a hidden sword from underneath his bed, he took swag from his bottle and nodded approvingly in Will's direction.

"I admire a man who is able to do whatever is necessary," he explained. "Your Latin is truly appalling, that you cannot deny, but what you lack in skill you make up for with cheek. You were in need of an opportune moment; and when that moment presented itself, you took it – as thoroughly and mercilessly as can be expected of a true pirate. Well done, lad!"

"Are – are you joking?"

"Why no—you should ask your mother, it would be most instructive if you did. She'll be the first to confirm to you that I can be remarkably forgiving in nature. Still…" He lifted his digit in warning. "- I do prefer to be compensated for my silence…"

"Compensation?" Will asked, his throat tight with fear again. "You mean … like gold doubloons and pieces of eight? I haven't much money, only a few small pieces…"

"No. As a matter of fact, I prefer an arrangement profitable for both sides …"

"Oh …" Will had no idea what Jack was talking about, but the pirate was quick to enlighten him on what he had in mind.

"Allow me to paint a picture for you: By unfortunate and totally unforeseeable circumstances, a man finds himself tethered to his bed. Said man would love nothing better than get up and flee said bed, but his condition doesn't allow for it. Said man is also in need of his daily ration of rum, but the rum is guarded by a fierce dragon and he cannot get his hands on it. The only thing the man can still make use of is his head –incidentally and miraculously, he knows how to decline Latin nouns. One day, he meets a brave young man who is– well, almost – as sharp as himself, and said young man is suffering from his inability to do his Latin homework on his own. So, the two of them strike a deal: The imprisoned man does the young man's homework, while in exchange the young man helps him to get up from time to time and provides him with his daily ration of rum. Does that sound like a reasonable arrangement? I rather think I'm being terribly generous, given the circumstances…"

"Well …" His mother had once told him something about arrangements with Captain Sparrow, but he couldn't remember what it was; he dismissed it as unimportant. What the pirate had said indeed sounded reasonable to him, especially since it meant the end of his schoolwork trouble and the priceless opportunity to spend more time with the man, which, no doubt, would greatly add to his knowledge about piracy. "I suppose so," he finally said, hoping that this was what was expected from him.

Jack smiled one of his golden smiles and extended a hand to Will. "Do we have an accord?"

Smiling back, Will took his hand and shook it so hard Jack winced in pain. "We have!"

xxx

_A/N: Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio – In trying to become concise, I become obscure (Horace)_


	11. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21 **

Their arrangement proved to be a success; William returned from school each day, buzzing with the boisterous joy of youth straight to his favourite room of the house—Jack's room. He'd throw the door open wide, his hand clutching a crinkled piece of parchment that contained the latest exercises in Latin torture from Master Pinch's devious mind. Without so much as a second thought, Jack dictated the solutions while William sat on his small stool, stooped over the parchment, his pen frantically scratching across the page to catch every crisp syllable, breathless in silent awe of the elder pirate's mental prowess. They moved as one, swift as the swallows that dove from the sea cliffs, each of them anticipating the pleasant aspect of their afternoons together.

With his teeth digging into his bottom lip to prevent a full smile, William handed Jack his daily and much appreciated ration of rum. Guzzling until he hit the end of the bottle, Jack put a single index finger to indicate his lack of preparation. Impatient to begin, William unleashed a hearty and unhappy sigh as Jack licked his lips, savouring every last drop of his favoured elixir, his eyes closed with pleasure. "A particularly fine vintage today, Master Turner—excellent choice…" Jack always praised, shifting back his bed clothes.

Eager as a pup, William scrambled off his stool, taking hold of Jack's arm with a firm grip to help him rise from the bed and take a few fledgling steps. Their little walking trips never crossed the border of the doorframe, but each day was marked with small feats of new found strength. Twice, Jack managed to walk far enough without getting winded to ask William for a bowl of water and some time alone so that he might "wash away his many and varied sins".

William's mind burned with questions, each one springing forth as he reviewed in detail his previous meetings with Jack, all of which had ended with some sort of outrageous tale either pertaining to the infamous Captain Kayman, and on rarer occasions, the often hair-raising adventures of Jack Sparrow and his humble parents. William had always thought himself well-versed in the basic facts of his parent's lives despite the careful avoidance of the subject by his mother, whom he could hardly picture as a true pirate captain. After his return, his father had added a few details; his parents had married in the midst of a great battle against cursed pirates, but those minor particulars hardly completed a portrait comprised mostly of gaps.

With fascination, he listened with eager ears to Jack's accounting of how he and his mother had first met. Fleeing from her brutal fiancé, his mother had thrown herself off the cliffs of Port Royal, and probably would have drowned if it hadn't been for Captain Jack's tremendous courage. Risking his life, he fought the Royal Navy's bravest soldiers, jumped into the sea, and killed two sharks with his bare hands to rescue her. The spectacular tale was so epic in proportion that William had rushed to the school yard to share it with his equally astounded school companions, all of whom, he knew, secretly envied his luck in sharing quarters with a notorious invalid.

William desperately wanted to ask his mother about the events Jack had related to him, but he sensed that it was best for him and his pirate friend to keep their meetings secret. Once, not long after Jack had woken, his mother had warned him to stay away from Jack, implying that this was what his father would want him to do. His questions in regards to why his father wouldn't want him to talk to their guest, who according to the stories, had not only been his friend but also his saviour, had been answered not at all or with her most unconvincing of all her snarled replies: Captain Jack Sparrow was not the sort of man with whom a child ought to keep company.

If he hadn't seen evidence to the contrary, he might have assumed that something horrible must have happened between Jack and his mother. He hadn't completely abandoned the suspicion that some sort of tragedy had befallen the friendship between Jack and his father---the latter of whom had never once mentioned the name Captain Jack Sparrow.

In the end, he abandoned his attempts to understand the many eccentricities of adults—all of whom dishonourably invented strange rules to inhibit the inquiring minds of young pirates. There were many people his mother thought no company for a child; Billy the Butcher, the men who frequented _Blind Man's Bluff_, Shipwreck City's most disreputable quarter, but as far as William could judge, Captain Sparrow was unlike any of them.

xxx

Jack sat in his bed, eagerly anticipating William's arrival from school. His fingers traced pensive lines over the thick stitching of the time-worn quilt that rested over his knees. There was something in the lad's company he enjoyed but he'd never outwardly admit it, particularly not to the headstrong boy. Perhaps young William reminded him of himself when he was a child, but the lie was too big for even him to swallow. Jack had been a lively child, but his youthful self lacked young William Turner's innate slyness and cunning. In many aspects, the lad was quite different from himself - his parents' son, but above anything, an individual in his own right. It was possible; of course, that all children were equally independent—he admittedly hadn't much experience with youths but from his observation of the occasional swab or cabin boy, there was no denying that William was different. Contrary to most people he knew, the lad rarely bored or annoyed him. His company was as refreshing as an afternoon sea breeze and even equally as inspiring at times. The house seemed empty when he wasn't around, and Jack found himself waiting impatiently for the slamming of the door and the sound of footsteps on the stairs, announcing his arrival.

When William finally stormed into the room, completely out of breath, Jack was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, legs swinging freely. He was able to master small movements like sitting or standing up without difficulty, and being used to the uncomfortable life aboard a ship, he found it increasingly comforting to sit for a while without a hundred cushions supporting his back.

"Jack!" William greeted him cheerfully with wide-eyed enthusiasm radiating from his ruddy cheeks. "I ran all the way home from school! We're busy today!"

"We?" Jack furrowed his brow, pretending to be irritated by William's perpetual good cheer.

"Well, _you_'re busy today." He grinned and rummaged through his bag until he'd found what he'd been looking for. Still breathing heavily, he handed Jack a crumpled crème mound.

"What's this?" Jack quizzed, holding the parchment between finger and thumb.

"Master Pinch dictated us the Latin lines and we're supposed to translate them into the King's English."

Jack's eyes ran across the cramped handwriting until they crossed with confusion. He supposed that a translation given by a crashing bore like Pinch wouldn't make sense, but what the lad had written down was an assimilation of thoroughly incorrect Latin orthography.

"Are you certain Master Pinch dictated THAT? You do know, that "responsititium" is by no means a Latin word, do you?"

"No," William replied, his eyes shining with obvious relief. "But that's why I have you—stop dallying and finish up; I want to hear more about Captain Kayman."

Jack shook his head and held the parchment closer to his face, in case he had misinterpreted the scrawling text. The effect remained the same. Hardly one word was written correctly, telling him in no uncertain terms that the lad was in bigger trouble than he'd first recognized. Jack thought him intelligent, but lazy; now, however, it seemed that as far as Latin was concerned, he hardly had any basics at all.

William gazed at him expectantly; he felt the guilt crowd his stomach before he could fight it. The arrangement he'd talked him into was anything but profitable for both sides; indeed, when he left again in a few weeks time, the lad's situation with Latin would be worse than before.

"Is something wrong? Are you feeling ill again?" William asked when he saw the thoughtful expression on Jack's face.

"William, tell me something, or there's no use in continuing: Are you quite certain I should do this for you?" The alarming seriousness sat etched on his features, and William shrugged in surprise. Jack could see the disappointment in his eyes; clearly, the lad thought he was backing away from their accord.

"Take what you can and give nothing back!" he reminded him reproachfully, throwing Jack's own words back at him.

"Agreed; except for those rare unfortunately reoccurring situations in which we're required to look toward the future. I won't be here forever, lad."

"So?"

"So long as you're asking a question, why not say: 'Well yes, Captain Sparrow, and what happens then?' Answer me this, Master Turner: What happens to your Latin work when I depart in a few weeks time?"

"I don't know." Visibly alarmed, William attempted to maintain his outward composure, though it was clear he hadn't ever considered the question. "I suppose everything will be as it was before. Pinch complains to my mother, she complains to me … and sometimes, Father or Captain Teague will agree with her. And then, they'll leave me in peace until next time." He shrugged his shoulders in silent resignation, facing an unchangeable truth.

"What would you say if I showed you an _almost_ fool-proof way to escape this vicious cycle?" Like so many times in his dealings with the Turners' son, he didn't know where he was heading to, but felt it was the right direction.

Will's eyes began to shine. "You'll stay?"

"Hmmmm, tempting…" Jack smiled. "Let me think about it for a while…" He pretended to ponder the matter before he exclaimed: "No!"

"Oh …" William was disappointed, but then, his features brightened. "Oh, I know! You'll give me your address and then I can send you my schoolwork!"

Jack studied the awestruck gratefulness in the lad's eyes, and he almost felt sorry at having to disappoint him when it came to his own selflessness.

"Alas," he began, "the solution I have to offer has less to do with me than it has to do with the inevitable. The long and the short of it: You will learn Latin!"

A shadow drew across William's features like a cloudy veil.

"None of my friends speak Latin good!" he cried sulkily, mimicking his mother's pout. "You lied to me when you said that every pirate has to know Latin, didn't you?"

"Well," Jack corrected with a deep frown. "They don't speak it well--King's English indeed; and I deeply resent the word 'lied'. As it stands, I told you a not so well-known version of the truth." William gave him a puzzled look, he continued: "The gist of my words ring true: Some day, you will find yourself in a situation which requires the knowledge of Latin. Moreover: In some cases, Latin can be effectively entertaining. Most of the exciting stories are written in Latin." He thought and realized tardily that the authors he admired most were Homer and Herodotus, but quickly added: "Well, some of them might be written in Ancient Greek, be that as it may, the Romans – the founders of Latin– are reason enough to learn the language."

"I already know about the Romans," William replied without enthusiasm.

"You do?"

"Pinch has already told us everything about them. Their king was called Caesar and a man with a dog's name killed him. Though I reckon, he died of boredom after studying Latin."

"And that's all your illustrious schoolmaster told you?" Jack asked in disbelief.

"I don't recall every word, but from what I've seen the Romans were less exciting than Davy Jones' fish-faced crew."

Jack was adequately surprised at the cynicism in William's words. He'd never thought Davy Jones' men –fishes – particularly entertaining.

"That, my dear lad is a gross mischaracterization of the Roman empire and is most obviously a result of your inability to see the actual truth, which, in turn, goes back to your limited knowledge of the Latin language. If you were able to read Latin, you could study all the necessary sources to reach the conviction that the Romans were a veritable bunch of bloodthirsty savages…not at all unlike your Jones' school of fish. In fact, he was a great admirer of the Romans…Maniacs, every last one of them…"

"Really?"

"Oh yes! And the maddest of them all was made Emperor." _Not so different from Shipwreck City_, Jack thought, but he didn't dare say it loud.

William blinked and looked at Jack quizzically before his features spread with disbelief and disgust. "Captain Jack!" he exclaimed, and Jack felt as though William were lecturing him as though he were a child. "You're cheating."

"Slander!" Jack shouted, feigning indignation, but unable to hide his smile. "When have I ever lied to you?"

William didn't answer. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and cocked his head with a reproachful expression in his eyes, derisively curling the corners of his mouth. Inwardly, Jack acknowledged that the lad was anything but easy prey, something he'd assumed of children and most people in general.

"I prefer a somewhat generous version of the truth," he said hastily, "but you have my word that what I've said about our Roman friends is historically accurate. Take –" Pausing briefly, he searched his astonishingly broad knowledge on Roman antiquity to come up with a fitting episode. "-Caligula! Has that moron of a schoolmaster ever told you about Caligula?"

"No … I suppose not." He sounded insecure, still fighting the remaining bits of scepticism, but Jack was confident he had at last taken the right course.

"I thought not. Apart from a few other unsavoury stories–" _All of them not exactly fit for youthful ears, _"- he did something so extreme even his equally mad consultants came to the conclusion that he was most positively sixes and sevens. "

"What did he do?"

"He made a horse his consul!" Jack replied proudly, as though it was a story he'd come up with on his own.

Will eyed him suspiciously: "What's a consul?"

"An advisor in Roman administration; like the Keeper of the Code.

"Well, what happened then?"

"The horse made difficult decisions, spent too much gold on oats, and finally, they chased it away until they found a Roman mad enough to murder Caligula."

"Oh!" That Caligula had been killed, too – like Caesar – seemed to impress William more than a governing horse. "Were all Roman Kin – I mean, Emperors – murdered?"

"Pretty much," Jack replied. "But let us show them no quarter. It was their favourite pastime to watch others die. Sometimes their lions had slaves for dinner, with thousands of spectators watching – and believe me, it's not particularly nice to know you're on the menu!" He remembered with horror, his short sojourn as god to the hungry Pelegostos who'd promised him the great service of ridding him of his human form. William, on the other hand, appeared increasingly fascinated by the ancient rulers' atrocities, and Jack used his newly won attention to lead their conversation back to Latin.

"Part of those performances – that's what they called a public execution- were gladiator battles, meaning that specifically trained slaves used the most colourful weapons to hack each other to pieces. Before the killing started, they had to salute the Emperor by saying: _Ave Caesar_ –"

The door was pushed open in an instant and Elizabeth appeared in the doorframe, her face red with fury.

"- _morituri te salutant_!" Jack finished in shock, but without granting him as much as a single look, she marched towards her son.

"William! To your room – now!" she ordered sternly. "I'll know immediately if you're listening at the door again! I'll deal with you later."

William seemed to shrink half an inch and though Jack didn't think himself the immediate object of her fury, he wished the mattress would take pity on him and swallow him whole. He instinctively reached for the sheets to pull them over his head, only to find they were forming a heap at the end of his bed. Desperate, he bent forward as far as his throbbing wound would allow, but when he heard the sound of a door falling shut, he knew it was too late. Elizabeth had already planted herself at the footboard of his bed, glaring at him angrily.

"Jack Sparrow!" she screeched.

"Captain," he corrected her, lifting a timid finger. His defeat might have been unavoidable, but _Captain_ Jack Sparrow had never been one to give up easily.

In an almost perfect copy of her son, she crossed the arms in front of her chest, and began tapping her foot on the creaking floor. "It might interest you to know that I've had a fascinating conversation--" she said in a frighteningly soft voice.

"It might." Jack replied coolly while inwardly, he scrambled to take her meaning while he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"--With Master Pinch. And do you know what he said?"

"A sack of flour and five Lemon Drops, please?"

His feeble attempt at humour failed miserably. She stepped forward until her shins pressed almost painfully against the bed stead; leaving him with the impression she was trying to stab him with her piercing gaze.

"One pound of peas to be precise but he did so after he'd informed me of my son's remarkable progress in his studies. Phenomenal isn't it? He's a little genius at languages, after all this time of not applying himself …"

She didn't sound particularly amazed, but Jack struggled to understand why it was her son's improved behaviour required such a theatrical entrance in his bedroom.

"Marvellous! My deepest and most heartfelt congratulations!" he proclaimed in an attempt to save the situation. "I think that deserves a toast. Drinks all around!" He reached for the bottle of rum he'd placed on his nightstand. Better to play the fool than for her to know that he'd finally taken her meaning. She'd discovered his arrangement with William! Curse that yellow-hearted school master.

"Shut it!" she bellowed; he was certain that the spittle spraying from her mouth was venomous.

"I've known my son for quite a while," Elizabeth drew breath and Jack seized the silence in one last feeble attempt to make light of what appeared to be a difficult situation.

"From the day he was born, I'd wager." The sardonic irony of Jack's remark and his attempts to distract her fell on deaf ears.

"He's always been an intelligent, lively child—a bit too lively for school and especially for a highly sensitive fellow like Master Pinch. For years, I've been listening to his complaints about Will's lack of presence and scholastic achievement…" She glared at him viciously, then gulped for air and went on with renewed vigour. "Now you expect me to believe that Latin – of all subjects! – has turned into his favourite pastime?"

"There are miracles in every aspect of life, if one knows where to find…"

"Rubbish! They are not a part of mine. I stopped believing in miracles, long ago! But there is one thing I will believe without fail: Jack Sparrow had his dirty hands in this!"

"Preposterous!" Jack exclaimed. "Me, a modest sailor who still fights the pitfalls of the King's English … why that's completely absurd, almost grotesque and…" _The wrong choice of words_, but when the realization entered his brain, it was already too late. Elizabeth pounced on the confirmation of her suspicions.

"Don't you dare talk yourself out of this. Has your inebriated and soggy skull already forgotten? I caught you in the act."

"Is that so?" Maybe the appropriate strategy lay in the attempt to controvert everything, he mused, but the darkening expression on Elizabeth's face quickly destroyed what hope had been left to him.

"Oh, don't play the innocent invalid! I have no idea where you've found the golden pot containing your language skills, and I am not interested in the slightest in hearing the story. There is something I do want you to tell me: What's sort of devil's bargain have you made with William?"

"I'm terribly sorry to inform you of this but you're misjudging the situation. I'm the victim!"

"Victim! You dare to consider yourself a victim? William is barely ten years old. He'd never …" She fell silent, and it didn't take him long to discover what had stopped her tirade; finally, the bottle of rum on his nightstand had attracted her attention.

"Ha!" she declared, pointing at the fatal piece of evidence with her outstretched finger. She was the image of an ancient vengeance goddess, and for a split-second, in her raging fury he was rendered speechless by the attractive flush to her pale face until he found her nothing short of _beautiful_. He quickly chased the thought away, helped, no doubt, by her renewed onslaught.

"How like you, Jack Sparrow!" she riled. "Instigating a pack of lies in a completely guileless boy's head, only to earn your daily ration of liquor …" She bit her lip, shaking her head. "If I didn't know you won't do it anyway, I'd tell you that you ought to feel ashamed of yourself!"

Jack felt consumed with fury. He'd neither come here through his own free will, nor had he asked for the special blessing of having to grapple with a ten-year old lad several days a week. Could he really be blamed for trying to make the best of his indisputably bad situation? Apart from that, he felt that he'd deserved an award for his noble attempt to rectify the Turners' failures in their son's education; and what did he get?

"Listen hear…you…" He struggled to find an appropriate insult and rallied with the first that instantly sprang to his lips. "Your majesty!" he began, feeling provoked, but Elizabeth would hear nothing of it.

"No!" she squealed. "YOU will be the one to listen to me! I've watched in silence long enough. You'll not be tainting my son's mindset with your…tomfoolery! I've had enough of your escapades, once and for all! The next time I find you meddling with matters concerning my family, I … I …"

"You'll what, Elizabeth?" Jack asked with all spitefulness he was capable of, his face contorting into a saturnine grimace. "Slay me with your sauce pan? Or mayhap you'll poison me with your dreadful cookery. Ah yes, that be the final act of the once great Captain Swann, served with undercooked peas…"

She looked at him in disgust, unable to miss the low swing he'd taken at her current way of life. Silenced by an almost unendurable rage, she turned her back to him and stormed out, the familiar sound of the door slamming shut as her only retort.

xxx

**A/N**: Ave Caesar morituri te salutant - _Hail, Caesar, those who are about to die salute you. _


	12. Chapter 22

_A/N: Thanks a lot for the feedback, everyone! I can't even tell you how happy we are to get so many reviews, alerts and favourites for this story!_

_Chapter 22 is going to be long and angsty, which doesn't mean we completely dropped the humour. Hopefully, you'll like it :)_

xxx_  
_  
**Chapter 22**

Despite their torrid argument, Jack was rewarded with a good night's rest. Encouraged by high spirits, he'd eaten a whole bowl of thick soup Elizabeth had wordlessly handed him before dozing off into an exhausted sleep. He must have slept well into the morning, for when he woke, all was silent, save for the birds who warbled in their full-throated splendour right in front of his open window . He brought a hand to his forehead and opened his eyes halfway, only to realise that Elizabeth had missed to close the curtains. Blinded by the Caribbean sunlight, he felt his most constant companion, his dreaded headache preparing for an unexpected return. Unleashing a plaintive groan, he silently cursed his negligent nurse. Clearly, she was by no means aware of the precarious state he was in. He spent some rather comforting minutes pitying his plight when the memory of yesterday's heated exchange crushed his mind and once fine spirits to dust. He groaned again, pained more acutely than before but for entirely different reasons. Over night, the satisfying sensation of plundering the final say had disappeared replaced by the bitter tang of regret. _Damn_, he couldn't even pretend he didn't understand her fury! This time, he agreed with every single one of her accusations—he'd come to the same conclusion only moments before her verbal assault.

He shouldn't have made the lad part of his schemes, much less part of an arrangement the outcome of which could hardly have been less favourable for young William; reluctantly he owned that he had wronged the boy. If she'd only given him the chance to explain himself, she'd have known that he'd been about to set things right. Their fragile armistice had been ruined for no reason at all – which he regretted. During the past week, her company might not have been what he would term as enjoyable, but there was something for not having to fight tooth and claw for dominance. Though his condition had improved considerably, he was still far from the kind of physical shape that was required in defence against her verbal assaults. Indeed, he considered himself lucky that their sparring had remained verbal at all; she hadn't lost the tiniest portion of her former clout. If anything, her current way of life had only brought her closer to the saintly image of Joan of Arc at wartime.

He immediately began to picture her in full harness, leading a whole army against his invalid figure. The image scared him so much he made another attempt at opening his eyes; more successful, this time, though he was still blinded by the light. A sideward glance told him that Elizabeth must have visited his room before leaving for her shop. On a chair next to his bedside, he found a fresh white shirt; on his nightstand a mug of water and two mangos gave the wrong impression of a gentle woman taking care of a beloved friend. Mindful of the ironic contradiction, he picked up the mango as he thought. A lesser man might have mistaken the lovingly served breakfast as an apologetic gesture, but he knew Elizabeth; this was expression of an overdeveloped sense of duty. She was the pious martyr with a cross to bear, he the lowly peon, unfit to touch the hem of her garment in his unwashed, sinful state.

Unwilling to add to her virtuous triumph, he ignored his stomach's grumbling protest and stubbornly placed the fruit back on his nightstand. His shirt felt dirty and smelled, tempting him to put on the fresh one, but contemplating the matter, he decided that dirty and smelling was exactly how he liked his clothing best. He sat up and shoved the chair carrying the unwanted shirt aside, preparing himself to get up. Shakily, he threw back his bed coverlets; he had to double his training if he wanted to leave the house unscathed.

xxx

It still felt awkward to be here, within these very walls that had known him, long before he'd come to know himself. Contrary to what legend said about him, he'd come into this world in a small, but beautiful house overlooking the cliffs of Shipwreck Island. Here, he'd spent six years only devoted to the joy and unconcern of childhood – a freedom he'd never known again. The familiarity of his quarters was both a blessing and a curse—the house hadn't changed in all the years he'd been away; only the former occupant had altered with the course of time.

On wobbly legs, his hand resting safely on the bedpost, he swayed over to the window. A little out of breath from the exertion of getting up, he leaned against the windowsill to regain his strength. When he felt strong enough to support himself on his own legs, he let go of the sill to tie his mass of hair back and rearrange his scarf. He supposed he might have asked for a mirror, but looking at his own reflection in the glass pane seemed revealing enough for the time being. From what he could discern against the blazing sunlight, he was unusually pale, with dark shades below his eyes and a beard that didn't look like his anymore. Even though he had always shaved to keep his facial hair from resembling Barbossa's untamed rat's nest, he couldn't help mourning the loss of his twin braids. _Blasted woman_, he was fortunate that she'd left his head where it was.

Running his fingers through his hair, he discovered that some braids had loosened. As soon as he had recovered, he needed to sail to Hispaniola and see Mama Ayché, the only one he trusted enough to lay hands on his precious hair. For the time being, however, he had to make do with himself. It took him several minutes, but when he was finished, he thought that his reflection looked less shabby and more like the dashing rogue his admirers knew him to be.

Reasonably content with the result of his efforts, he turned his attention to the sight that presented itself to him when looking out of the window. He was surprised to find that it was the sea gazing back at him, a shimmering blue carpet stretching far beyond the horizon. 'Had it always been like that?' he wondered. Had a little boy once sat on his mothers arm, looking out of the same window to see the end of the earth where his imagination lead him to assume its location? As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember. It was the image of his mother that rose in his mind; and for once, her features weren't smeared with blood and clouded with the haze of death, but full of life and agonizingly beautiful. He knew that she would have wanted him to remember her in this way, without the deadly bullet lodged in her stomach, but he had never managed to shake off the cruel memory of her loss. He had been six and she had been the first woman he had loved. Maybe the only one. Not even that he could say with reasonable certainty – like so many things in his life.

He had also loved Charlotte, _oh yes_, and he would have married her if fate in its merciless brutality hadn't decided otherwise. Still, the naïve young man who had once been engaged to a decent young woman of social standing didn't seem part of him anymore, and sometimes, he even wondered if his existence was no more than a fading dream, forgotten when dawn finally broke. He rarely thought about Charlotte, even rarer than he thought about his mother, but when he did, one image wouldn't leave his mind: Her delicate figure in a blue dress, dangling from a windowsill with a rope around her neck, while a loose shutter ceaselessly banged against the wall.

His lesion began to throb, and he had to support himself with his hands to stay upright. He wanted to lie down again, but his mind's ceaseless wandering meandered further into the mire of his past, through a muddy, heavily vegetated swamp at the end of which sat a small, dilapidated cabin, belonging to the mystic Tia Dalma. It was hard to say whether he'd loved her or not, but it didn't matter. She had never loved him and he doubted a mere mortal could ever touch her heart. She had used him, as she'd used his parents, but when he ignored the un-pleasantries, he rather enjoyed looking back on the time they'd spent together. She had taught him everything about lust, pain, and his own limits, and though he wasn't sure he wanted to repeat the experience, he savoured it. Sometimes, when he thought about his mother's necklace, he wondered what would have happened if he'd never given it to Tia but such musings yielded nothing. Remorse was no stranger to him, but he had never allowed it to consume his life, being an eternal optimist by nature. There was a difference between mistakes made by the impetuousness of youth and those caused by arrogance. For the latter, he'd paid with his soul, and though he liked to believe he too had 'a touch of destiny', the poor decisions he made in life were not the result of Calypso's clever plotting.

After Tia, there had only been the sea in its purest form for him, endlessly deep and unforgiving. Of course, he'd had a variety of women in his life – sometimes also men, but he'd never desired them beyond their physical merits. Some of these encounters meant something to him; a trophy, or mere satisfaction of wants, but not love.

He remembered that one day, in the midst of the Persian Gulf, he'd been struck by the completely preposterous thought that maybe he actually loved Elizabeth Swann. _Sheer Madness! Oh,_ he must have been brick-faced! She had dazzled him, yes, vexed him; indubitably, but he'd sooner go back to the Locker than acknowledge that love might have been part of his feelings. If anything, it had been astonishment; yes, he was astonished that another person - a woman, of all people - could in so many regards so closely resemble himself.

Following a spontaneous impulse, he turned away from the window and waved his hand, directing an invisible audience's attention to his surroundings. In reality, however, the beckon was directed at none other than himself. Everything he saw was visible proof that he'd been wrong about her, had misjudged her in any way possible until he'd found himself entangled by her cleverly spun web of deceit. At first, she'd revealed herself to be a cold-blooded murderess; then, in her all consuming ambition, she'd soared to become Queen – _pardon_, King – of a dying breed. And now? Now she was acting the whelp's virtuous wife and mother for his fiendish son while resting on her already fading laurels. 'Bravo!'he wanted to exclaim, but all sarcasm got stuck inside his throat when the bitterness of his thoughts came crashing down upon him

He had never been one for self-criticism, but he began to feel like a spiteful vainglorious actor, unable to carry the mask of age with dignity. Elizabeth hadn't succeeded in making the best of her abilities, but then, who was he to judge her. With a considerably greater amount of time to turn his existence into something peripherally useful, he had achieved less – and _how _he had tried! Seeing where his last attempt at setting things right had led him, he couldn't help but think that there was not much of a purpose to be found in his efforts. Ending up with a bullet in his chest, bereft of his seven senses, naked as a newborn child and, worst of all, in the bed of a woman the acquaintance of which he'd wished to erase from his biography could hardly be termed a successful application of his talents.

He pulled a face, disgusted by his uncharacteristic venture into the nasty realm of self-pity. Maybe this was part of getting on in years; like the tweeting ache in his joints when a change of weather was imminent, or how his eyes seemed to fail him whenever he needed their services most. Even Gibbs, though quite a bit older than he, was able to read charts without putting his nose to the table's surface. He had even considered wearing an eye patch, so no one would get the impression that the legendary Jack Sparrow's inability to decipher even his own handwriting sprang from something as profane as age.

He thought of the state of his aged father, stooped with a cane; in a few years time, that would be his face. He almost wished that deuced bullet had killed him! Almost; he was still Captain Jack Sparrow, the infamous pirate who had escaped an uninhabited island on the backs of two sea turtles. Theoretically, he had sacked Port Nassau without firing a single shot and had managed to leave Davy Jones' Locker wholly alive. His admirers deserved a statelier exit; a grander finale than his dying in a bed, on land and without his boots and coat--especially after he'd loused his search for the Fountain of Youth.

Despite Elizabeth's erroneous assumptions, he was a man who pondered thought on a wide range of subjects. Undeniably, it was this trait that had won him more than one advantage when dealing with opponents less intellectually sound than him, but now, condemned to stay in a house filled with unwanted memories, he found that he was prone to brooding. The negative turn of his thoughts brought the edges of his moustache downward--_he needed to escape!!_

He had spent enough thought on his current situation to accept that he was still far from leaving Shipwreck City; considering that he had no ship created another difficulty, though one that could easily be overcome as soon as he felt well enough to plot a ruse to deprive an honest sailor of his vessel. Of course, it was still possible that such an endeavour would prove to be unnecessary … '_No_!' he scolded himself, shaking his head. His men knew what was at stake. They had disobeyed his orders when they'd brought him to the _Cove_, but as their defiance had saved his life, he found he could hardly use that against them.

That didn't mean, however, he wouldn't give them a sound lecture about decorum, maintaining Captain's orders, whoever falls behind gets left behind, and so forth, the moment he was back on the _Pearl_; presuming, of course, a particular unsavoury someone had the decency to keep his dirty fingers from matters that required a careful hand and an alert mind. If that certain someone hadn't said presence of mind, Jack feared that his sojourn as an invalid had brought all their toiling schemes to naught. Jack's stomach turned at the thought, and he brushed it aside as quickly as he had the lamentable adventure that had cost him the Fountain of Youth.

Feeling that delving deeper into his endless concerns might depress him, he chose to go for a walk to lift his spirits and chase away the blue shadow of nagging guilt.

xxx

As long as he kept close to the wall, everything was fine. Whenever a stabbing pain wreaked havoc through his chest, interfering with his balance, he only had to reach out for support and after a few seconds' rest, he was ready to proceed. After having passed the door frame, however, his venture seemed to grow a little more difficult. He had completely forgotten about the fact that his room was located on the first floor, meaning that he would have to go down the stairs in order to reach the garden. There was something rather tempting about being able to relieve oneself without having to use a chamber pot, and despite his warrantable concerns, he decided to try. He leaned against the wall to better estimate the distance between where he was standing and the stair-rail. Four steps, five at most, he guessed, confident that he'd be able to master the obstacle, but as soon as he'd taken one step without the wall's protective shelter, he felt overcome with vertigo. The room spun faster and faster until he nearly stumbled, saved only by his fingers closing around the doorframe moments before his legs started to give way.

He clung to the darkened wood as though his life depended on it, waiting for the panic to subside. Panting heavily through his parted lips, he hesitantly let go with one hand and tried to assure himself that all was well; he'd fallen victim to a particularly nasty whiff of sickness that was unlikely to come back anytime soon. A closer look at the staircase, however, prevented him from making another attempt at reaching the rail, let alone a descent down to the front door. He leaned forward, but recoiled at the sight; the stairs seemed endless and as steep as a mountainous ravine. When he imagined himself at the bottom stair with a broken spine, he chose another route--he had never particularly cared for gardens.

In search for an alternate possibility for entertainment he scanned his surroundings, hoping to find anything of interest. As he'd already found out during his walks with young William, there were three additional rooms on the first floor. There was the Turners' bedroom, the lad's room, and another room the purpose of which remained a mystery. There was not a tinker's chance he'd ever lay his eyes on the bed Elizabeth and Will shared together; equally he had no desire to find himself faced with the chaos that undoubtedly prevailed in young William's realm. So if he was to go on expedition, the mysterious room adjacent to his own remained the only choice – not an exciting prospect, to be sure, but better than lying in bed, pondering matters he'd thought successfully removed from his mind.

Taking up all of his confidence – shaken, no doubt, by his near-breakdown only moments before – he continued to follow the wall up to the door handle. His fingers scraped lightly over the brass, discovering a thin layer of dust; obviously, the room he was about to enter was not regularly used by the Turner family, which made his curiosity rise again. Maybe there were some secrets left to discover, after all.

xxx

As soon as he opened the door, he felt his hopes collapse to the dusty floor. The room was neglected, as he'd assumed it would be, but the reason for its disuse was clearly visible and anything but inexplicable. If he'd learned one thing during the weeks he'd spent at the Turners' domicile, it was that there was nothing Elizabeth despised more than housework. Despite all the trouble she took to preserve what she liked to call "personal hygiene", her interest in dusting the floors was as remarkably humble, as her attempts at cookery. With a dreadful lurch of his stomach, he recalled her soups, which usually included either too much salt, or no salt at all; all other kinds of food – ranging from meat to beans – were burnt or overcooked. From the looks of the scattered corpse-like remnants of shattered shirts, skirts and other tufts of fabric it appeared he'd discovered another pastime she desperately sought to avoid: Sewing.

Bedclothes and linen sheets were lying in heaps on the floor or thrown carelessly over one of the various chairs standing around in no apparent order. He spotted one shirt within his reach and picked it up to examine it closely. Judging from the size, it belonged to the elder Will Turner and had once suffered from a tear in the shoulder seam until Elizabeth had solved the problem with an uneven row of amateurishly drawn stitches. Jack tried to decide whether the torn shirt would have looked better than the patched one, but the difference was probably slight.

Though he had never been particularly fond of sewing, least of all his own shirts, he was quite convinced that if he tried, the quality of his work would surpass Elizabeth's by far. Luckily, he'd always been thoughtful enough to prevent her from nearing his sails with needle and thread, even though he remembered that she'd once offered this particular service on their crossing from Tortuga to the Isla Cruces. Tossing Will's shirt aside, he thanked the heavens that it had been that blasted midwife and not Elizabeth to stitch his wound; then he continued his examination of the chamber.

To his great disappointment, he found nothing of interest, apart from a small bookshelf on the opposite wall. He doubted that Elizabeth possessed any works he'd like to read, but seeing that his life had become so dull he was forced to entertain himself with evaluating someone else's needlework, even one of those horrible 'novels' young ladies read secretly beneath their bedcovers would provide a welcome distraction. He slowly approached the shelf, cautious to avoid the various rags littering the floor with a wolfish grin on his face imagining ways to taunt her with the choice of books he would doubtlessly find:

'_And what, luv is __'The Torrid Adventures of Captain Ahab' supposed to tell me about the state of your marriage' _Jack's grin deepened as he imagined the flush that might climb to Elizabeth's cheeks when he withdrew the novel from behind his back and dangled it like a rotting fish in front of the pert curve of her delicate nose. His imagination ran wild with the possibilities: _'The Passionate Adventures of Captain Ahab'…Can't recall if I've heard that legend before. What is the novel's about, I wonder… Oh, I recall! Isn't it about a young chambermaid who is kidnapped and coerced into slavery by a brutally attractive yet strangely insightful highwayman?'_

The possibilities were endless, but already the first look at Elizabeth's library told him that he'd cheered too soon. There were no passionate adventures or kidnapped chambermaids, but a surprisingly decent collection of books in various languages. As might have been expected, she owned books dealing with explorers, buccaneers and pirates; none of these remotely resembled a work of romantic fiction written to satisfy a young woman's secret desires.

"Oh bugger," he muttered dejectedly as he pulled out a book entitled "The Twelve Most Wanted Pirates". He licked his index finger as he thumbed through the book, halting his search when he discovered a familiar name, his own name: Jack Sparrow, "a giant of a man", with "a broad, hairy chest" and "long blonde hair". He turned the book on its side to examine the artist's rendering of the said description. Smirking, he closed the book and put it back onto the shelf, chuckling all the while. Apparently, this was the only book in her collection that had been written to satisfy secret desires of young women…

He reached inside his shirt to examine his chest hair as though perhaps the artist had captured him in his sketch, something that he had never once noticed; no, all he found was smooth skin and the rough linen of the bandage covering his wound. '_Like a girl_,' a cruel, mocking voice rang inside his head. '_You know you have a pretty face, don't you?_' After the voice, the only thing he remembered was the flashing of a knife. It was a miracle nothing had lingered but a slash through his eyebrow and a small scar on his chin, now covered by his beard. He shook his head to chase the memory away then returned his attention to Elizabeth's books. A small green volume looked familiar to him and when he pulled it out, he found that he'd seen it before. It was his mother's book, the Spanish translation of an old Arabian work on birds, listing their names and characteristics beneath a colourful illustration. Elena Teague had loved birds, but finding she was unable to take their freedom away, she enjoyed their company in the garden or on the pages of the book he was holding.

As though acting of their own accord, his fingers began turning the pages like they'd done a hundred times before. Forty years were momentarily erased, and young Jack Teague found himself looking for his favourite entry: _Gorrión _– the sparrow. He remembered his mother's smile when she compared him to the bird. _'They're as quick as a flash and always chattering - just like you.' _

When he finally reached the page, worn from frequent use and the careless fingers of a child, he was surprised to find two sheets of loose paper. Someone had put a letter inside the book, then placed it back on the shelf and forgotten about it. Curious to find out whose words had dared to settle next to his favourite bird, he lifted the letter to his eyes and began to read. The salutation made him startle.

'_Dearest Jack,'_ it read in small, rather cramped script. His heart raged faster and for a split-second, he believed that the words had been written by his mother. He recalled tardily that his mother would have written to him in Spanish, and though he had no memory of her handwriting, he found it hard to picture her making use of such a minimalist style. Everything about her had been generous and elegant, but the letter before him seemed to display only confusion and insecurity. If she wasn't the author, this could only mean that _Elizabeth_ … as soon as the thought had struck him, all strength disappeared from his body, rendering his legs wobbly, while his wound throbbed bitterly. The pain was excruciating and he had to close his eyes; his outstretched hand blindly reached for support, found a wooden armrest and to keep himself from collapsing to the floor, he threw his weakened body into a nearby chair. When the pain had faded, he realised that he was sitting on top a heap of torn sheets. Like a king resting on a strange throne preparing to speak to his people, he reopened the book and took out the letter. Why not read it in its entire length? It was, after all, addressed to him.

_Dearest Jack,_

_If there is a poor way to open a letter, it begins with an off- hand remark about the weather. The day is clear and bright, autumn sunshine fills the yard. Poorer still, is the letter that opens with a stark confession; the writer admits that they don't know how to begin the letter in question. Let it be known between us that in this instance, my letter to you is a poor example amongst better, more clearly written prose and it is true; I am unable to find the courage to start this letter to you. _

_There are things I wish to tell you, so many words left unsaid at our last parting, but I feel my poor pen can not do them substantial justice. Yet, the only way to ease my burden seems to be with my pen. Do you see the laughable contradiction?_

_I fear that __you might think me ungrateful and arrogant. The circumstances under which we parted all those months ago were anything but fortunate, as was my choice of words. Please, Jack, believe me when I tell you that I do know what you've done for us – for me and Will! I know of your suffering, and I understand that there is nothing I can do to return your sacrifice. Oh, how I wish I could!_

_I am at Shipwreck City__, and won't be able to leave anytime soon for reasons happier than you might expect. I'm carrying Will's child, and though it saddens me to think our child won't know its father for ten long years, I am grateful that part of him will stay with me until we're allowed to meet again. My life has changed in ways I never expected and while I might not have wished for these circumstances, I comfort myself when I think of what you might say: 'There'll always be rum and sea turtles.' Or at the very least: 'There'll always be sea turtles to bring the rum.' _

_Shipwreck City is a wonderful town. It's the place I __dreamed living in as a child and I am confident I made the right decision to raise my baby here. People here are ever so kind, and none has been more helpful than your dear father. _

Jack grimaced at the mention of his father. The old man had always possessed a talent for making people see what he wanted them to see. In Elizabeth's case, he'd apparently acted the loving grandfather. Jack stuck out his tongue, as if he'd just tasted an especially disgusting flavour of rum. It was an almost grotesque image, Teague taking care of a pregnant young woman, and a stabbing pain suddenly filled his chest. His own family, Jack and his mother, had never mattered to him – at least not as much as piracy and that confounded Code had. And in his blasted self-righteousness, his father had never tried to explain himself, or express any kind of remorse for what he'd done.

Anger took hold of Jack's soul, sweeping him away like the raging sea. He'd grown up an orphan, a stranger among strangers in a country he never considered 'home'. It was only after events the memory of which was no more than a bloodied veil atop a darkened pool when he found out that he'd been abandoned and betrayed. How well he remembered that day! Golden rays of sunlight that fell through weathered planks, a face that belonged to a life long forgotten, arms that wouldn't come around him in a welcoming embrace … They'd stood there, staring at each other, unable to believe it was actually true. At first, he'd thought that Beckett had done it, that he'd lost his mind somewhere in the vast space between darkness and pain. But as his vision had cleared through the tears that wouldn't come, he'd wished that madness would finally come to claim him.

While his mind roamed the uneven paths of memory, his fist closed around the thin paper, crumpling the letter. Hate consumed him, threatening to swallow him whole when his eyes fell upon two words, peeping at him from underneath his fingers: '_miss you'_.

With renewed interest in Elizabeth's writing, he slowly unlocked his fist and ran a smoothing hand across the letter.

_Captain Teague told me you never come to Shipwreck City, but I do so wish you would. There's so much I need to say to you; I miss you._

Frantically, hardly daring to trust his eyes, he turned the page but found only glaring white looking back at him--the letter was unfinished. Disappointment crept to his features and it was with fading hopes that he unfolded the second page. His heart leapt with glee when he discovered that it was covered in writing – the same uneven, cramped handwriting that had told him that somewhere someone had actually missed him.

_Captain Teague already told me you never come to Shipwreck City, but I do so wish you would. There's so much I need to say to you. I miss you._

To his surprise, it turned out to be another letter, not a mere continuation of the first one.

_Dearest Jack,_

_You'll probably be surprised to find a letter from someone you must think an ungrateful wretch. I realize that our friendship has not always stood on solid ground. Yet I hope that one day, you'll be able to forgive me for what I've done to you._

_Every day, I cling to the hope that you'll turn up at my doorstep and we'll finally have the opportunity make amends, but with the passage of time, my hopes grow dim. As you'll probably know from hearsay, Shipwreck City is my new home. I suppose you might find it most unfitting for a Pirate King to lead a landlubber's life, but circumstances leave me with no choice-- my life has been blessed with a boy. He has his father's eyes and smile, and every time I look at him, I feel as though Will has been allowed to stay with me. _

_It might interest you to know that my son's name was intended to be William Jack. However, on further thought, I wanted to ask you about it first, and as you haven't come, I perished the notion, thinking that you probably wouldn't appreciate the gesture. _

_I would be lying if I told you that life here is never lonely, but little William and the people of Shipwreck City almost make me forget that I am alone in this world. Especially your father – god bless him – he has been most kind to us, but from what I've been able to gather news of your father isn't what you would want to hear about._

'Clever girl,' Jack thought with a smirk. It had taken her months, but she'd finally come to the conclusion that he wouldn't want to hear about his father … splendid!

'_But please, Jack, even though I know it's not my place to meddle, your father dearly loves and misses you.' _

Well, maybe not so clever, after all. As he proceeded, he was relieved to find she'd at least possessed the decency to lead the subject into a different direction.

_You'll probably remember Tai Huang, my former First Mate; he's the man with the scarred face. I wanted to pass the captaincy of the Empress to him, but he would have none of it. He lives now at Shipwreck City; he'd always dreamt of opening his own restaurant, and he owns a small cabin in which he sells the most bizarre but delicious concoctions. We have every reason to believe he'll soon marry town's midwife, but I should stop prattling about people you do not even… _

The letter ended mid-sentence, as if she'd been interrupted and never resumed the task. Jack sat motionless, eyes fixed on the sheet of paper in his lap. His thoughts spun around wildly like a loosened rope during a hurricane, and he caught the first one he could grasp, clinging to it like a drowning man.

If she'd been so desperate to see him, why was it she'd kept the letters in an old book instead of sending them? '_And to where exactly was she supposed to send them_?' the voice of reason answered. '_To Jack Sparrow, somewhere out there_?' Even if one of the letters had actually reached him – by bird, perhaps, he'd seen similar before – how would he have answered? Would he have come?

But that wasn't really part of the problem. After all, he'd come to Shipwreck City during all those years, had endured his father's unnerving presence time and time again, only to assure himself that she was well. No, the question that lingered on the air like prevailing wind was: Would he have spoken to her? More than once, he'd been agonizingly close to approaching her; one day, he'd even dared to go to her shop, but as he observed her through, while the sunlight gleamed like a rare of gold off her hair, he'd caught her eye and his courage had left him.

What would a mangy, cantankerous, salty sea dog have to offer her for conversation anyway?

'_Hello, luv, I__'m frightfully sorry I didn't mention it before but I'd previously taken a vow of silence, in an effort to take orders as a man of the cloth. What? Slander and calumny! Of course, I didn't stay away because I was livid with you for all your betrayals-how dare you accuse me! Why must you always stir up the old stories? You wished for my presence your majesty and now I am verbosely here--Captain Jack Sparrow, the godfather to your son, and your most trusted advisor. The ear you may talk sore whenever you feel compelled to speak of your beloved husband, the jester you call whenever you require a fool to dance and make merry – No, no. Please don't thank me! This is the role I was born to play…'_

His ludicrous version of that imaginary meeting didn't prevent his empty misery. Elizabeth was far from the company he would have willingly chosen for himself, but by no means did she deserve the pile of malice he'd thrown at her during the past weeks. Her constantly sour mood and the thinly veiled reproaches hadn't exactly rendered things easier for him, but the discovery of the letters had softened the hardened lump that formed in his chest when he considered the way he felt about her. It was probably nothing more than a mere trifle, and if someone had asked him, he wouldn't have been able to name it though "hope" was its closest relative. He knew now that she had wished for him to return; and for a reason that remained a mystery this newly acquired knowledge made him happier than he had been for years. A grin spread across his face until his cheeks ached at the turn of his thoughts, which had catapulted from the doldrums of despair to sweet elation at a new, startling revelation: sometimes an ending could turn into a new beginning if one only found the courage to change the tide.


End file.
